The World's More Full of Weeping Than You Can Understand
by furby23
Summary: Christine loses the ability to sing after an illness while on tour. With her life now forever changed, will she be able to face her Angel of Music once more - and with the voice he loved so dearly gone, will he even want to see her again?
1. Chapter 1

Christine falls face into her bed, the doctor's words still ringing in her ears. Silent sobs wrack her slender frame. She never would have imagined at the start of all this that it would turn out this way. It had started so innocently - a minor irritation, a tickle in the back of her throat, nothing she couldn't push through with a extra cup of tea now and then. It had progressed to pain in the coming weeks, causing her to have to sit out a number of performances, but still, these things were common - perhaps she was over exerting herself, too much practice and not enough rest, the stress of traveling and singing at new locations. Even then, at the onset of the fever, she still thought it would be temporary. But the hoarseness that was expected during her fever still lingered when the heat had expired. The pain when she raised her voice in song was now almost unbearable. It had been weeks.

She would never forget the look of unease on the doctor's face after she explained her symptoms, the frigid silence as he struggled to find the words to tell her what would change her life forever, the pounding of her heart as her last naive expectation of being given some pill or potion that would bring her voice back to its melodious former glory slowly died away and fizzled into the emptiness of uncertainty.

"It's quite rare, Madame, but these things do happen. In all likelihood this is as recovered as you'll hope to be." he shuffled nervously. "I do suggest you try to not push yourself anymore - too much strain on your vocal cords now could cause you to lose your voice entirely at this point. If you enjoy being able to talk, you must never attempt to sing again."

She walked numbly from the office into the street, her face a blank mask. It is not until she crosses the threshold of her lodging that the thin buzzing in the back of her mind comes crashing down in a cacophony of realization that this is not a dream.

Not a dream, no. A living nightmare.

She twists her hands violently in the sheets, squeezing her eyes shut. What will become of her? She takes a shuddering breath. She has no other special talents, no skills, no experience. She has no family. And now, she has no career. No future.

The walls are closing in her and she fears for a moment that she will go mad. She had given up everything for this. Her mind touches on all the futures she'd turned down, each one snuffed out like a candle in pursuit of that glorious sun shining in the distance, her one dream. With that great and terrible sun now gone, she has no flame left anywhere to reignite any of the candles. They will stay dark forever, and so, she fears, will her life.

Years ago, she had had the opportunity to become the Viscountess. Ah, but a Viscountess does not sing. A half a year engaged to Raoul after they returned from the catacombs had been enough to expose the conflicts between who she wanted to be and who she was expected to be. She loved Raoul, of course she did, and he loved her too - but a Viscount's life is not his own. There was propriety to uphold, mothers and brothers and society with expectations that often clashed with personal wants. And a Viscountess does not sing. It had hurt both of them terribly, when they finally had to do what must be done. A mutual breaking of engagement, a mutual shedding of tears. He loved her, yes, and that was why he could not sentence her to life that must forsake music. She had loved him, she did, but she would not - could not - give up so vital a part of her heart and soul to be by his side. Their fatal fault lay not in themselves, but in their stars. He had married someone else within a year's time, and though they had parted on good terms with each other, they had not kept in contact since.

But it was not dear Raoul her thoughts now turned to, not to her potential comfortable life as a Viscountess, not to the bitter irony of having lost her music either way.

Her thoughts turned to him.

She knew she could never face him again. She couldn't. Not like this. She cries over the loss of her voice, over the loss of her future, the loss of her hope - she is crying over the loss of her Angel. Those four things are so closely tied to each other. And in a way, to have lost the proof of those long hours, those endless exercises, that skillful coaching - it feels to her like she's lost an important part of her past as well. All those years poured into perfecting her voice - gone, with nothing to show for it, as though it never even happened.

And with that path forever closed now, where else could she go? The Opera Populaire had been her home for so long. Madame Giry was the closest she had to family. She cringed at the thought of having to be there with the shadow of that building hanging over her, the knowledge that he was so close yet she could not let him know. But she had no other option, no other choice. Madame Giry was the only person she knew that would not mind the imposition. A brief flicker of a thought told her that perhaps she was not the only one, perhaps he would not mind either, but she crushed that thought underfoot, smothered it till it dare not arise again. What a foolish child's fairy story that would be - and she was no longer a naive child to believe such things. No. She could not allow hopes to linger where she knew they would only be dashed to pieces by reality.

She sat up and scrubbed at her face, talking a deep calming breath. It would not do lie here forever and cry.

She would leave for Paris in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Her shaking hands cause the teacup to rattle on its plate. She blinks away tears as she shakes her head to Giry's offer.

"I can't go back there. Not like this."

Giry looks down at her own teacup, steam rising from the surface.

"I do not know how else to help you, my dear. You do not have to work concierge with me if you do not wish it. There are many jobs at the theater I'm sure you would fit well with."

Christine frowns harder and shakes her head once again. Giry does not understand.

"It's not the job itself, Madame." she raises her bloodshot eyes to meet hers. "I cannot return to that place. At all." she holds her gaze and wills her to understand, begs her to not make her say her reason out loud and give it life.

Perhaps, if it remains unspoken, it does not have to be faced.

Giry pauses for a moment, studying her former ward's face.

"Because... because of him?" she asks softly.

Christine nods once and drops her head.

Giry's brows knit.

"Because you do not wish to see him again."

It is not a question.

The silence from Christine holds.

"I had thought you two were on good terms after it all was over."

A wave of concern washes over her countenance.

"Christine, did he- did something happen that I'm not aware of? With him?"

"No!" Christine is taken aback. "It's nothing like that at all."

Christine places the untouched teacup back on the table and begins twisting her napkin between her hands. Her own emotions are such a mess, how can she put it all in a way that Giry will understand?

"I- I do not wish to see him, because he will not wish to see me."

She pauses before skimming a hand over her throat and adding softly, "Not now. Not like this."

And Madame Giry understands.

Christine replays the conversation in her head again and again that afternoon, long after Madame Giry has left for work.

She's thankful that Giry was considerate of her feelings towards meeting Erik, that she didn't pry or push. She's thankful that she's letting her stay here in her small home instead of insisting that she return to her room in the Opera Populaire.

She wants nothing more than to be able to return to her former life as though nothing had happened since she left. But the reminder of what she had lost was too great to bear.

And does want to see him - she wants to see him desperately, but she knows that this is the one thing she will never, never do.

Her mind races over the weeks that led up to this catastrophe, the things she could have done differently. He had always urged her take small symptoms seriously, to not wait until it got worse before seeking to remedy it. Her voice was too precious to risk in any way, he had said. She should have seen the doctor sooner, she should have rested longer, she should have gotten a second opinion while the fever still burned, she should she should -

And he will know these things even if he does not say them. He will know that she was foolish, that she had crumpled up her one opportunity and foolishly thrown it away. She had held everything she ever wanted in her hands and she had let it slip away. She's told herself these things countless times since finding out. She's bound to tell herself these things again on repeat for ages hence. But to hear them from her Angel would crush her.

He will hate her, she is certain of this. How many years did he spend training her voice? The effort, the patience, the dedication? She was his only student, his only protege. With him condemned to dwell in the shadows, it had brought her joy to know that something he had worked so tirelessly on could garner such praise and applause even if he could never show his face in society, and she was sure he felt the same about it. But now that has been taken from him, from both of them. The cease of applause, the cease of his work existing in the world, the cease of her voice - it was a kind of death. And it killed her to have to be the death of him yet again.

She thinks back on that awful night when she and Raoul had raced through the catacombs, not knowing what would happen to Erik. Raoul had insisted they leave Paris for a while after that, and she had agreed - to avoid the authorities with endless questions and the unflagging gossip of the press. They had taken a trip through he countryside, and there had more nights than she cared to admit where she awoke with gasping breath and cold sweat from a heart wrenching dream. Not of being kidnapped, not of marrying a man with a hideous face, but of what had happened afterwards that she didn't see.

Was he even still alive? Had the mob found him? Did they kill him there in his home? Had he been arrested instead? Was he awaiting execution? She did not know, and she had no way of knowing until they broke they engagement and she returned once more to Paris, unable to mention or inquire over him through letter lest it be intercepted or fall into the wrong hands. Madame Giry had told her that yes, he had escaped capture, and he was still living in the theater, although now with all the attention he was keeping a low profile in the hopes of being believed dead after all. Christine cried tears of relief upon hearing this.

It was then that Giry mentioned that Erik had wanted to see her once more, if she'd have him.

When Giry opened the secret door, it was not her Angel behind it. It was also not the Phantom. It was simply a very subdued and remorseful Erik. He wouldn't step into Giry's office, instead choosing to stand in the doorway as he looked down at the threshold where carpet turned to stone.

"I must apologize for my dreadful actions, Christine. There is no excuse for what I did, and I do not expect or deserve your forgiveness. I promise that such escapades will not be repeated, and I can only pray that there are no lingering ill effects for you..." he raised his mismatched eyes to hers for a fraction of a second. "Or for your boy." he adds softly.

Christine felt a lump in her throat. She knew, after all of it, that she should hate him, fear him, be mad at him at the very least. But she could not find it in herself to do so. Perhaps that was a fault on her part, a testament to her naivety or overly forgiving nature, but it is what it is.

"Thank you, Erik." she breathed. "I'm - I'm not engaged anymore - to Raoul."

He nodded briefly, no emotion on his face. Giry had already told him about that when she received word that Christine was returning to sing again. Perhaps at some earlier time such news would have set the gears of his mind turning with schemes, but he was no longer so foolish as to think that he could simply step into Raoul's place now that he was out of the picture. He had made his choice that night when he let her go, and he would abide by that.

"I'm back now for good, I should think, and I'm going to sing again."

He nodded once more. "Christine will be spending a lot of time here. If Christine wishes it, she will never have to see Erik again." he said solemnly.

He turned as through to leave, and Christine sprang from her chair, hands outreached towards him.

"No! No," she cried.

He paused, surprised.

"Actually, I was hoping..." she picked at one of her nails, an unladylike trait but a nervous habit. "That is, if Erik doesn't mind too terribly much, if he would consider giving Christine voice lessons once again?"

She felt silly adopting his mode of speech, but it was one he only used when he felt too vulnerable and she had hoped that by doing so she could convey her own fragility towards her hope of working with him again.

His green and blue eyes darted back and forth between Christine and Giry. He had not been expecting this. The briefest glimmer of hope sparked in his eyes but faded almost soon as it started. A voice teacher, that was all. He would not let himself think anything else.

"If that is truly your wish, Christine, we can begin tomorrow."

"I do wish it." she clasped her hands to her throat, smiling and blinking away a few happy tears.

She had missed him so.

And so once again he was her voice teacher. But it was different than before. He was more distant, more calm. He still watched her performances from box 5, and nothing about their lessons themselves were different. But he was less personable, and Christine could understand why.

But he remained her faithful mentor right up to the end, when she and he and Giry and had toasted to her career in Giry's office the day Christine had received her invitation to sing abroad. He told her how proud he was of her, of all her hard work, and of all her potential. She had her last performance at home that night, and she had found a single red rose tied with a black ribbon on her dressing room table afterwards. She still had that rose, carefully hung upside down and dried, currently in her dorm room on her nightstand.

Beneath the worries of his scoldings or the fear of disappointing him, there was another fear she very nearly refused to admit to herself lest she be crushed under it.

All that time after she had returned, he knew there was no hope of a romance or even of a strong friendship - he had kept his distance and observed boundaries. He was strictly in it, as much as she could tell, for her voice.

What use did a vocal coach have for a girl who no longer had a voice?

It was terrible to consider the harsh things he might say to her, the possibility of his temper igniting once more after laying dormant for years, but the very worst... The very worst of all would be not hearing from him at all. To stand there in front of his mirror, to call his name, and to only receive silence in turn. To realize that after fifteen years together, she as a person meant nothing to him beyond a beautiful singing voice. To be discarded now that she had nothing to offer him. It that were to happen, it would be the end of her. Her heart could not bear such a thing. And she could not find it in her to truly believe that he would not do such a thing.

So there was no help for it. She simply could not return to the Opera Populaire - that was the only certain way to keep her soul from shattering like glass underfoot. If she never saw him again, she could hold to the fairytale she could construct in her mind.

Perhaps it is selfish of her to want him to still love her after all that has happened. But she is alone and scared and uncertain, and she simply longs for someone to be there for her. Her papa is gone from this world, Raoul is married and gone, Meg is married and gone, Madame Giry is the only one there for her. It is not too selfish, she thinks, to wish for more than a single person to have near her. Besides, all things considered, she had spent more time with Erik than she had with Giry. She is thankful for Giry, absolutely, but it simply was not the same.

She sits down on the floor and rests her head on her knees and cries.

The one person she wants is the one person she cannot reach out to. She thinks that perhaps this is just a taste of what he felt for her all those years, and she cries harder.


	3. Chapter 3

Madame Giry sighs as she rests her feet on the ottoman in front of the fire. It's been a long day at the theater, but finally it is almost over. Her guest should be here any moment. Like clockwork, the secret door opens and Monsieur Opera Ghost enters the room. He settles into the chair opposite her, and she hands him his teacup and a plate of lemon slices.

It has been their tradition now for a while, ever since things had calmed down. She insists he come to her office for tea or a light meal at least every other week. It is not good for him to be so alone, she realizes. They talk of the performances, the theater gossip, or if he has procured a newspaper recently, the latest happenings both local and foreign. He had been dismissive of the idea at first, but he always arrived, and after a while he began to suggest when they might meet again. He didn't want to be alone either.

He has been so different since that night, she thinks to herself. Nearly being caught and dying at the hands of a mob probably had something to do with it. He would never tell her what exactly had happened with it all, but Christine had told her the details one day after she had returned from Raoul. She had kissed him, she said, a faint blush coloring her face. And he had let them go. Ah, so that was it. It made sense now. That kiss had broken him. The pinnacle of his life had been reached, he had achieved what he thought would always be forbidden to him. But once he had it, once she had shown him that she could see the man beneath the monster - he could no longer pretend at being the monster. He had to be the man now. He had to be the man she thought he could be. So he let them go, and he stopped his more menacing ghost shenanigans, and he tried to make right his many wrongs.

He was no longer fighting for something. He was no longer the Angel of Music looking to win the affection of a young girl. He was no longer the Phantom of the Opera pulling strings and dropping chandeliers. He was just poor, tired Erik, who had lived a hard life and yet still had managed to receive a kiss from the girl he loved - and then he lost her once again, because what kind of life would she have with him? The highest point of his life had been reached. There was nothing left to strive for, no fiery passions left for him. All that was left was to live the rest of his days until he ran out of them. And after that kiss, he was at peace with that. It was far, far more than he'd thought he'd ever have, anyway.

Madame Giry is tense tonight. She is unsure of how to broach the subject with him.

They sit in silence for a while as Erik squeezes wedge after wedge of lemon into his tea and Giry winces at sight. How he can stand to drink such a thing, she will never know.

"I have heard from Christine." she finally announces.

"Oh?"

One more lemon wedge.

She stirs a spoon of sugar into her tea perhaps a little too vigorously.

"She is back in Paris now, actually."

He looks up from the cup, now more full of lemon that tea, she thinks disdainfully.

"Is she?"

She can't discern his expression behind the mask, and takes a deep breath before continuing.

"Now Erik, please, I need you to not overreact to this."

His shoulders tense.

"Christine has been ill, and as a result, she has lost her voice."

The teacup drops from his hands and shatters.


	4. Chapter 4

It has been three days since Christine returned, and three days since she has been outside. She has done nothing but sit and think of him and mourn.

She will never have another lesson with him, never hear their voices entwined in duet again. He will never play the organ for her while she rehearses, never pause to give correction or praise. She thinks of their very last lesson before she left on tour - and how was she to have known it would be their last lesson ever? She had poured her soul into her song that night, and when it was over he had turned from the organ to look at her with such fondness and told her "Your voice is perfect, Christine". She had beamed at him, full of life and joy. And now she was here, no voice, no joy, no Angel.

Madame Giry tuts at her, imploring her to join her at work.

"Please, my dear." she pleads. "It's not good to stay here all by yourself. Come with me to the theater, it will be fine, I promise."

Christine sighs.

"It will never be fine again." she says sadly.

Giry throws her hands up in exasperation.

"You know you're only saying that because you haven't seen daylight in ages."

Christine does not budge, so she tries a different approach.

"Please at least accompany me to the door of the theater, Christine. I get so lonely on my walks, and I know you must be lonely too to sit here all day. After I go in to work, you can get some groceries at the market, yes?"

Finally Christine relents.

"But I'm not going inside."

"Of course, my dear."

When they reach the foot of the stairs outside Christine looks up to the roof with tears in her eyes.

"Are you certain you don't wish to come inside?" Giry asks sadly. "Are you so very certain?"

Christine doesn't answer, and mutely walks away.

But she walks with her to the theater the next day. And the next. And the next after that. And on the trip after that trip, she accompanies her up the steps, but stops just before the doors. She fearfully glances up once again, knowing that he's possibly already seen her.

It has been a week. Giry's patience wears thin.

She comes home that night and wanders around her home for a while. Suddenly she bursts into the room Christine is reading in.

"Christine! It is terrible!"

Christine looks up, surprised.

"I have left my purse at the theater! I must go back and fetch it before it goes missing!"

Christine looks baffled.

"That is very unlike you, Madame. Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, yes, I've just been so busy, you know... Oh, but you must go with me to the theater, it's so late and I do not want to walk alone." she wrings her hands so convincingly that Christine's heart twists.

"I'll go with you, Madame." she says.

So they go to the Opera Populaire. Christine goes inside, and she's so caught up in helping Madame Giry find her missing purse that she barely realizes where she is.

They search up and down the halls before Giry says it must be in her office.

Christine leads the way, hoping to get this search over with as soon as she can, to get back home before she runs into -

She opens the door, and he's there.

Inside Giry's office, his hands behind his back, his eyes nearly betraying the worry he's working so hard at hiding.

Christine stops dead in her tracks. Her hand flies up to her throat. It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room.

He's only here because he doesn't know yet, she thinks to herself, Do not, Christine, do not open your mouth and let him hear you like this. He will leave you then.

But it's impossible- she can't not ever speak again. So she will lose him. So she disregards her own advice, steels herself to the inevitable, drops her hand to clench at side, and greets her former tutor.

"Hello, Erik."


	5. Chapter 5

It was just as Giry had told him. Her voice held a certain hoarseness to it now, a different timbre. She would never sing like this, certainly.

"Oh, Christine." he breaths, mournful.

Mournful for her devastating loss, mournful that she had, despite his best efforts, been frightened of him, that she had cried because of him yet again. Mournful that she would think he wouldn't want her now.

She misunderstands. He's sad - she's upset him, disappointed him. It's happening just like she knew it would and any second he's going to start scolding her before disowning her. Her knees feel weak. She's falling towards the couch.

In two long strides he's by her side, catching her and helping her to the couch.

She can't stop the tears from falling, even though she's mortified by them. And before she realizes it, he's holding her in his arms and rocking her gently. She fists her hands in the lapels of his coat and cries her eyes out on his chest. He lets her, and pulls her closer till she's practically in his lap.

"It's all right, Christine. It's going to be okay." he murmurs to her as he softly runs his hands up and down her back and arms.

He knew. He knew and he came here because he knew. She's not sure now if she's still crying over losing her voice or out relief that he's here or both.

She pulls back to look at him, her knuckles turning white in their grip on his coat.

"Do you hate me?" she cries.

"I could never hate my little Nightingale." he replies tenderly, kissing her forehead and pulling her close once again.

Madame Giry leans on the doorframe. She so hates that she had to use trickery to bring Christine here, but she knows it will be for the best. It all would have been so easy if she just could told her that Erik wasn't mad, that he still loved her and wanted nothing more than to see her again - but there was no way to tell her so without revealing that the two of them had been talking about her, a fact that Christine was not likely to appreciate. Perhaps it was not her place to tell Erik about her former ward's misfortune, but she had been certain that it would not turn out the way Christine had feared.

A small part of Christine marvels at the closeness to her Angel. He had always been so careful to keep a respectful distance between them, especially after she had returned from breaking her engagement. Yet here he is, stroking her hair and cradling her to himself. She lets go of his coat and wraps her arms around him, clinging to him as though he were her anchor in a sea of grief.

He kisses the top of her head as she nestles closer to him. There are tears in his eyes now as well, but he does his best to keep his voice steady as he continues to whisper comforting words to her.

"Everything is going to be just fine, my darling girl."

He had been awash with sadness when Giry had told him about the loss of Christine's voice, but to hear that Christine was now afraid to see him again over how she thought he might react had utterly broken his heart. He had wanted so badly to see her, and day after day Giry would arrive without her and it had driven him nearly mad. He had even considered sneaking out and going to Giry's home one night to see Christine and to finally speak with her - but no, no, he could not do that - must not do that. He must wait for her to come to him. Seeing him again must be her choice to make. And now finally she was here with him.

He thought of that night he first found her in the chapel, of how she was crying on the floor then - how similar to this now, yet how everything had changed as well.

Slowly her sobs quiet, but still she clings to Erik as though she fears he'll disappear into the night if she lets go. She's vaguely embarrassed of the ever growing stain of tears she's leaving on his shirt, but is immensely grateful that he doesn't seem to mind.

"What am I going to do?" her voice was barely more than a breath.

"You're going to stop worrying and get a good night's sleep, and then in the morning you're going to eat a delicious breakfast, and then when you have finished - and only then - will we discuss your future career options." Erik tells her firmly.

She huffs out a laugh, even in her tear streaked state. When she pulls back just slightly to look up at him, he brushes his thumbs over her cheeks to wipe away the remaining tears lingering there.

It's late, far too late for them to return to Madame Giry's home, but Christine has a room here and Giry can stay in Meg's old room, so this is what they do. Erik walks both of them to their rooms, kissing Christine's hand before she closed her door, and bowing deeply to Giry who couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of him.

"Back to the shadows with you, Monsieur. We'll see you bright and early in my office for breakfast."


	6. Chapter 6

Christine settles into bed with the ghost of his kisses and caresses still lingering on her skin. For the first time since seeing the doctor, her last thoughts before being submerged into slumber are not entirely of despair. She sleeps the whole night through and for one blessed moment when she awakes in her old dorm room, she feels that everything was as it should be. But the truth comes rushing back to her, the memories of the past weeks, and once again sadness settles on her like a fog.

She thinks of the night before and half wonders if it were all a dream, of if she'll get to Giry's office and find only Giry waiting for her there. Perhaps he had merely wanted to hear her voice himself, and then there was the unfortunate business of her crying that he felt he must tend to - perhaps he was just being kind at the time to make her stop crying. Perhaps during the night he had changed his mind about wanting to see her again - perhaps she had lost him the very moment she spoke! - perhaps she might not see him again after all.

So she can't stop the warm smile that plays at her lips when, after she steps into the office and turns around from locking the door behind her, she sees those bright eyes trained attentively on her and hears his rich voice once more.

"Good morning, Christine."

Christine has lost so very much, but she did not lose her Angel. She thinks that if he stayed by her side, maybe it would not always be so horrible.

A few moments later Giry brings in a trolley cart filled with various breakfast foods and locks the door behind her. Christine has not had much of an appetite lately, but today she finds she wants to keep eating, sampling some of everything. Perhaps she has finally found her appetite. Perhaps she wants to delay the conversation she knows is coming when they finish.

It's Giry who starts it by clearing her throat.

"I was hoping you would reconsider my offer for a position with the concierge."

Christine hesitates.

"I do not know how I would feel to do such a thing. This place is filled with so many memories, with so much music... And I -"

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes despite her best intentions.

"I am no longer a part of that world. Of music."

"There is more to music than singing Christine." Erik offers gently. "Besides, if you are not living here, how can I be certain you will make it to your lessons on time? I am still a very strict teacher, you know."

Christine is puzzled.

"Surely not singing lessons..."

"Ah, forgive me. I had thought you had mentioned wanting to learn to play organ? Perhaps I was mistaken, then...?" he tilts his head.

She blushes.

"Oh, yes, that. No, you were correct!"

"I thought so." he nods.

Madame Giry smiles as she looks from Erik to Christine. Things are already looking up for her dear girl.

She makes arrangements for Christine's room to be throughly cleaned and freshened up. Later in the day she glances in to make certain that it is up to par. Her brows raise in surprise at the black vase filled with a dozen red roses on her dresser. That is certainly new.

Christine moves back in that night, her luggage scattered on the floor and only half unpacked. She begins her new job the next morning. Her lessons will not begin until later - Erik has insisted that she take time to settle in and become adept at her job before taking on learning a new instrument. So she shadows Madame Giry for several weeks, becoming acquainted with each aspect of her new line of work.

It is not the same as being on stage. Nothing will be. But it is not altogether unenjoyable - there are people to talk to and tasks to occupy her mind. And when her mind is not focused on her current chore, she finds her thoughts can now drift to something other than loss - her upcoming music lessons. She had not asked for lessons this time, had not thought to dare. His offer to teach her the organ had surprised her in the best of ways. She had something to look forward to now, and that was something she had not thought possible since leaving tour.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite how he held her on the couch that night, and despite the roses in her bedroom, Erik is once again reserved as he greets her before guiding her through the catacombs. This is the voice teacher she remembers from before she went on tour. She is almost disappointed - she certainly would not mind being held by him again. At that thought, she is suddenly glad for darkness hiding the color that has risen to her cheeks.

He leads her to his music room and sits down on the bench in front of the organ, gesturing for her to sit next to him.

The enormity of the moment is not lost on her. How personal it is, how intimate for him to be sharing this with her. She realizes she is very likely the only other person to sit here beside him, the only one he'd allow to touch this instrument that heretofore had been for him and him alone.

The realization of it all almost makes her want to cry in gratitude - but he has seen enough of her tears to last a lifetime. Although, of course, there is the distinct possibility that were she to burst into tears at this very moment, maybe he might once again hold her so gently.

But she could not do that to him. It would not be fair, given their history, to be fickle in seeking his affection when she was not entirely certain of her own feelings towards him.

When he had let her go that night, watched her leave with her boy - her fiancé - he truly had not expected to ever see her again. When he had stood in that doorway on the night she returned, not even daring to intrude into the same room as her, he could scarcely believe his luck. To simply see her once more was more grace than he deserved. And then - oh, sweet blessed moment - she had asked for him to be her tutor again.

He did not enter that contract naively. She wanted voice lessons, nothing more. So he taught her each day, knowing with distinct certainty that each gracious session could be the last. She would be well within her rights to sever all contact, to demand he never blight her with his presence again. But each day she returned and sang for him. And so continued to do so for several years.

Then he had had to let her go again. She had received invitation to sing on tour. This was different of course, than when she had left with that boy. But it still stung to see her go. This time, though, it was not unexpected. There was no sick surprise at the prospect of long days without her once more - he had been expecting this, you see. Besides, she would be up there on the stage, her one dream since as long as she could remember, and it would be his tireless instruction that had helped her to be there, his words and advice she would carry in her mind every single day. So perhaps that wouldn't so bad after all, letting her go again.

History repeats itself.

She had returned to him once more.

But never, never had he wanted it to be like this.

And then she had fallen, and he had caught her, and every thought in his head was for Christine, Christine, his Christine - there was no room left over for considerations towards impropriety or self-consciousness or if she would flinch from his touch.

There had been only himself and Christine in that moment, and he had been reminded of another moment long ago in the chapel.

History repeats itself, indeed.

Distracted from whatever errand had him sneaking through the walls that night, he had heard the soft sobs of girl. Annoyance had turned to compassion as he heard her prayers to her deceased father, realizing that they were two of the same - pitiful, abandoned creatures, adrift in the world with no connections to anchor them.

And then again in Madame Giry's office, his dear little Nightingale in his arms, his poor little Nightingale who had returned to him with broken wings. He had wanted nothing more than to give her the world, and then the world had returned her to him, broken. They were both broken creatures now, the world had broken them each in its own way.

So the broken man in the mask had held his wounded songbird and lamented the cruelty that exists in this life.

He could not let her lose her music in this fashion. It was too much, too brutal for her innocent heart to bear.

So he would crack open his own soul to give her one more gift, drawn from his own lifeblood, to be laid at her feet in offering.

He knew he would never be a husband, a lover, to her. No, those titles were not for him. He held no illusions about that, not anymore. But teacher, mentor, those words could still apply even now.

That was why he was here, leading her down the mist filled corridors he never thought she would ever grace with her presence again. That was why he was sitting her down on the bench next to him in front of his most cherished object, about to share with her this that he had never shared with anyone else.

And as she takes her place next to him, she looks at him with such tender wonder that he's almost glad of his mask. He drops his eyes to the keys.

"You will hold your hand like so, and we will begin with scales."

She says nothing during the lesson, but there are times he can feel her gaze on him. He thinks that she can tell, perhaps, how much this lesson means, that for him this isn't simply another instrument in his repertoire.

Their eyes meet once and for the briefest of seconds he thinks he sees a ghost of Aminta in her - but no, surely he is mistaken, surely not. He puts it from his mind and looks away toward the wall instead. He has let his imagination run away again, he scolds himself.


	8. Chapter 8

Christine is not a fast learner when it comes to the organ. She tries, oh yes, she's trying very hard. But it is so difficult at times.

She fears, sometimes, that she will cause him to regret offering her this, that she will butcher a piece beyond recognition and any whatever-it-is that keeps him by her side will die.

But she can tell how much he wants this for her. She can see him getting frustrated, his hands clenched by side, his jaw stiff and biting back harsh corrections. He does not snap at her, however. He knows that she has lost so much, that it is not her fault, and he is gentle with her.

She practices as much as she can between tasks at the theater, and finally comes the day she never thought would arrive - Erik praises her skill. She hides her face in her hands, overjoyed to find that she is in fact improving. Erik goes to place his hand encouragingly on her shoulder but think the better of it at the last second. He has forgotten himself again. With her face hidden, she does not see the aborted attempt at contact, for which he is glad.

As she gets better at the organ, he begins to add lessons in composing. These she picks up a little faster.

She adores being lost in the lessons, adores sitting there next to him as he shares his knowledge with her. As long as she keeps busy she is less likely to think of all she has lost.

Before she knows it, it is opening night yet again. Life feels so different on this side of the curtain, she thinks wistfully.

Madame Giry had set up a tea tray in her office, a ritual she usually reserved for well after the show was in swing, but she realized that perhaps Christine would be looking to seek refuge from so many memories and wish to retire early that evening.

Christine does indeed slink off as soon as the last seat in the audience is filled. She cannot bear to be here at the moment, so she closes the office door a little harder than she had intended. She sinks down into the plush chair and examines the contents of the tray.

A small cake, a stack of cookies, some fruit, a plate filled with more lemon wedges than she frankly saw need for, a bowl of sugar, and three cups.

It's as she pouring her first teaspoon of sugar into her cup that the secret door opens. Erik pauses awkwardly with his hand on the doorknob. He had thought that it was Giry he had heard moving around inside. He had forgotten that Christine also had a key to this room.

"Forgive me, I - I was expecting someone else."

She smiles at his uncharacteristic shyness.

"It's ok. Come in, won't you?"

He hesitates a moment before accepting her offer.

"Why are you not watching the show? Is someone sitting in your box?" she teased him.

He tilts his head, listening to the faint notes of music that manage to slip in through the cracks.

"I have had quite enough of Faust, I should think." he mutters.

She nods, understanding. He does not ask why she is not watching, and she is eternally grateful.

In this moment she feels closer to him now than she ever had in the past. Now, sitting here in the firelight with the sights and sounds of a world - that by all rights she should be a part of - went on without her. This must be but a shade of what he feels, she tells herself. So many happy patrons outside, not a care in the world, and the two of them here instead, in darkness, forever barred from that.

Well, perhaps that was silly of her, she thinks. She could go out there - yes, she could. She would not be chased away on sight. She could watch as many shows as she pleased, go anywhere she wished. But to be reminded that that would never be her up there again, that hurt too much.

Did he feel that same knife in his heart, too?

She, who no longer had anything to offer that world out there on stage, yet presentable enough to be washed in the cast off light from the stage that burned like a corrosive. He, wildly talented with skill the world would clamor for, yet forever banished from society because of his appearance. Truly, it must burn him too.

She is interrupted from her silent thoughts at the sight of him preparing his tea. Perhaps the plate held an adequate number of lemons after all, then.

He glances up at her.

"Is there something off-putting about how I take my tea?" he asks primly.

"No! No, it's just... That's a lot of lemon, that's all." she wonders if it even tastes like tea anymore.

"Oh?" he sniffs. "Tell me, how many spoons of sugar did you use?"

She scoffs at him. As if sugar and lemon were even comparable!

"Only four - it is a very large cup and a very small spoon!"

"Only? A teaspoon, my dear, only refers to what actually fits inside of the spoon - not the amount you pile up on top. Anything past the edge of the spoon counts as a different spoon entirely."

He picks up the sugar spoon, dips it in to the white powder and scrapes the excess off of the top until the top of the sugar is flat and level with the edges of the spoon, showing it to her.

Her mouth twists and she tries her best not to burst out laughing. She adopts a false sense of indignation.

"How I take my tea is none of your concern!" and she pours another heaping spoonful of sugar into her cup out of spite.

His familiar old saying bubbles to the top, and he almost says it out loud before he can stop himself - 'if you aren't careful, you're going to ruin your voice'. But suddenly he realizes what it is he's about to say, and the words die on his tongue. He looks down at his own cup, suddenly pensive. Thankfully, she does not notice.

Her heart soars at this playful banter and casual conversation with her mentor. They have not just talked for the sake of talking in ages, it feels like. Their topics usually do not stray too far from their lessons. But oh, how she's missed this. They had talked like this on occasion after she had returned to singing, but it was a rare happening. She hopes, now, that perhaps this can occur more often.

Their conversation pauses as the sound of a key turning rings through the air. Erik's posture stiffens. It is only Madame Giry who walks through the door and quickly closes it again. Erik fights a wave of guilt that rushes over him, as though he expects Giry to be cross with him for being here alone with Christine.

But he pushes that feeling aside. He is not doing anything wrong. Besides, Christine had asked him to stay.

He needs not worry. Giry smiles when she sees the two of them there.

"It's a full house out there! What a night." she shakes her head as sits next to Christine, and the conversation starts up again.


	9. Chapter 9

He accompanies her up the stairs that lead from his home. She has been here more than enough times by now to know the way herself, but she had asked him to go with her, and - curse his undying devotion to her - he could not deny her.

"I think the masquerade will be fun."

He does not reply to this.

"There's a distinct advantage I don't think you've realized yet." she looks at him with shining eyes.

"What would that be, my dear?"

"If- if everyone will be wearing a mask, you will blend right in." the words sound weak even as she speaks them, and she feels her nerve faltering.

"I won't need to blend in because I shan't be going."

"Oh, but Erik, you must!" she pouts.

"Why ever should I want to go to this party?" he glances at her.

"Because!" all of her well planned and much rehearsed retorts and wheedling have disintegrated to dust in her mind and she can no longer find them.

He looks at her again, concern written on what's visible of his face.

She swallows hard, knowing he probably thinks her unwell with how little sense she's making.

"You must go to the party, Erik, because otherwise I will have no one to dance with." she finally explains softly.

He is surprised he doesn't stumble when he hears this. He recovers quickly yet his surprise and bafflement towards her intentions make his reply sound harsher than he intends it.

"I'm sure there will be a great many young men at the party that you can dance with."

Great. Now he sounds jealous and offended. Christine chastises herself. It wasn't supposed to go this way.

"But I don't want to dance with any of them, Erik. I want to dance with you."

There's a waver in voice that betrays how close to tears she is, and she hates it. She feels it makes her sound like a petulant child.

But he stops in his tracks and holds the lantern up to get a better look at her face.

There is no mocking there, no cruel joke or tease. There is instead hope and a vulnerable quiver to her lip and an emotion that he dare not name that makes him look away.

He continues marching ever upward, and after several dozen steps he asks quietly-

"Truly, Christine?"

"Yes."

Her hurt and honest reply is quiet but it still rings out in echoes off of the walls, and she's wounded that he would think otherwise.

They speak no more on the rest of their journey, but the next day after her lesson he escorts her upstairs again and asks her what kind of costume she's planning on wearing to the masquerade.

"We must plan ahead so that I can find something that matches yours, you see." he adds.


	10. Chapter 10

He accompanies her up the stairs that lead from his home. She has been here more than enough times by now to know the way herself, but she had asked him to go with her, and - curse his undying devotion to her - he could not deny her.

"I think the masquerade will be fun."

He does not reply to this.

"There's a distinct advantage I don't think you've realized yet." she looks at him with shining eyes.

"What would that be, my dear?"

"If- if everyone will be wearing a mask, you will blend right in." the words sound weak even as she speaks them, and she feels her nerve faltering.

"I won't need to blend in because I shan't be going."

"Oh, but Erik, you must!" she pouts.

"Why ever should I want to go to this party?" he glances at her.

"Because!" all of her well planned and much rehearsed retorts and wheedling have disintegrated to dust in her mind and she can no longer find them.

He looks at her again, concern written on what's visible of his face.

She swallows hard, knowing he probably thinks her unwell with how little sense she's making.

"You must go to the party, Erik, because otherwise I will have no one to dance with." she finally explains softly.

He is surprised he doesn't stumble when he hears this. He recovers quickly yet his surprise and bafflement towards her intentions make his reply sound harsher than he intends it.

"I'm sure there will be a great many young men at the party that you can dance with."

Great. Now he sounds jealous and offended. Christine chastises herself. It wasn't supposed to go this way.

"But I don't want to dance with any of them, Erik. I want to dance with you."

There's a waver in voice that betrays how close to tears she is, and she hates it. She feels it makes her sound like a petulant child.

But he stops in his tracks and holds the lantern up to get a better look at her face.

There is no mocking there, no cruel joke or tease. There is instead hope and a vulnerable quiver to her lip and an emotion that he dare not name that makes him look away.

He continues marching ever upward, and after several dozen steps he asks quietly-

"Truly, Christine?"

"Yes."

Her hurt and honest reply is quiet but it still rings out in echoes off of the walls, and she's wounded that he would think otherwise.

They speak no more on the rest of their journey, but the next day after her lesson he escorts her upstairs again and asks her what kind of costume she's planning on wearing to the masquerade.

"We must plan ahead so that I can find something that matches yours, you see." he adds.


	11. Chapter 11

He meets her in the hallway they had planned on and pauses before offering her his arm, which she takes.

She's already smiling behind her bird-themed mask.

If he is nervous, it does not show.

They quietly enter into the ballroom, their arrival unnoticed in the sea of masked dancers and partygoers.

He decides the gentlemanly thing to do is to get her some punch, but instead of staying by the wall when he informed her of where he was going, she clings to his arm and follows him. He does not have the heart to say anything, and besides, he'd rather have her with him anyway.

They stand towards the edge of the room and watch those around them. Christine watches him watching the others. How long has it been since he was in a crowd this large?

Suddenly a hand waves out to the from the crowd, and a high clear voice is calling her name.

"Christine! You're here!" Meg rushes to embrace her old friend.

Christine had written to Meg before the party to inform her of what costume she would be wearing so that they could finally catch up in person. They had not seen each other ages, it felt like. Christine had also seen fit to warn Erik ahead of time that Meg would be looking for her, lest he be startled. As he was expecting this, he hangs back to let the two get reacquainted.

The two women talk for a short while before Meg's eyes turn to the man Christine was standing with.

"And who is this?" she eyes him up and down from behind her golden sun shaped mask.

Erik steps forward and gives a small bow.

"Good evening, Baroness. It is lovely to see you again."

Meg flutters her hand to her mouth in surprise, recognizing his voice.

She looks back at Christine, utterly scandalized and completely enjoying it.

"Oh, Christine!" she draws out every syllable of her name.

Christine can only giggle. She knows her secret is safe with her friend.

Meg takes her leave, more guests vying for her attention.

The first dance of the evening begins and Christine looks expectantly at Erik. Very little of his face is exposed underneath his black bird shaped mask, and she cannot tell his expression as he pulls her towards him and on to the dance floor.

She has never danced with Erik before. He is a better dancer than she had expected, and she wonders why this surprised her - he is, after all, quite adept at almost anything he does.

It's nearly divine to dance with him, she thinks. She wishes their costumes did not include gloves - really, she should have thought of this when planning them - so that she could feel his hand in hers better. She loves the feel of his strong shoulder under her hand, and how his hand rests on her back as he guides across the floor. He looks out across the floor, scanning the room for the first part of the dance, and then finally - finally! - looks at her and her heart skips a beat. It's all she can do to keep from collapsing into his arms in a most unladylike manner.

The dance ends and they, regretfully, part.

It is then that she notices something. Someone.

The Viscount de Chagny.

She gives a small gasp.

"Christine? What's wrong?"

She looks up into his eyes.

The Viscount and Viscountess de Chagny.

Her words stick in her throat. Finally she manages a reply.

"Nothing is wrong, Erik."

But he follows her gaze and sees the couple. Erik flinches and turns as if to leave, but Christine's hands shoot out and grab his arm before he can sink into the shadows.

"Don't go, please." she quietly begs him.

He stays.

She does not attempt to gain Raoul's attention. She misses her old friend, but it would not do for her to talk to him, not here, not now. How awkward it would be for the wife to meet the ex-fiancée, how the gossip would spread. None of them deserved that.

"He looks happy, doesn't he?" she whispers.

Raoul is doting on his wife - feeding her bites of cake and they are both laughing.

"I am glad they are happy."

She turns to Erik, to look him in the eyes. He swiftly darts his gaze away from hers, trying to pretend he had not been staring at her while she watched her boy. She summons all of her courage and places a hand on his chest. She can feel his heart hammering even through the many layers of clothing he's wearing.

"And I am happy to be here with you."

He makes no acknowledgement of her words but she notices that during the rest of the dances he holds her just a little tighter, a little closer, and she does not think it is only in her imagination.

The night passes without incident. They manage to avoid having to speak to anyone else, they dance to every song that's played, they drink punch and eat cake and sherbet - Christine considers it a success.

As they prepare to part in the hallway once more, she curtsies deeply while he bows to her and she has to stifle her laugh.

"I must thank you for a lovely evening, Monsieur." she adopts the affected air of an aristocrat.

"Likewise, Mademoiselle." he follows her example.

"I really do mean it, Erik." she softens her voice into her own, into sincerity. "Thank you for coming here tonight and dancing with me."

He takes her hand and for a moment she thinks he's going to kiss it, and perhaps he meant to at first, but instead he simply runs his thumb over her knuckles and gives it a gente squeeze before letting go.

"I shall see you tomorrow for your lesson."

And he slips off into the darkness.

She returns to her room, her mind still swaying in time with music long since silent. The evening was so lovely, and she thinks it was so sweet of Erik to agree to it - she had almost thought he would not, or perhaps change his mind at the last minute. But he had danced with her just as she had dreamed dreamed he would.

Erik steals back to his house on the underground lake in a daze. He had not dared to dream that he would get a chance to have such a night with Christine, not since before the... Unpleasant occurrence. But she had asked him to come here tonight - asked to dance with him! - and she had seemed to truly enjoy it. He had been so nervous over so many things about tonight. Would they be recognized despite their costumes? Would she not enjoy herself as she thought she would, and would it be through some fault of his? Was all this, perhaps, some sort of trick being pulled on him? But it had turned out so beautifully.

His mind is awhirl with emotion, his breathing feels like he's just run a marathon. His nerves are still thrumming from it all - he had not been in such a large for years and the chatter had been almost overwhelming. There were, of course, thoughts of the last masquerade that he didn't like to think of. But Christine had been here with him tonight, a beacon he could focus on when everything else was too much.

He knows he mustn't let his mind get carried away over it - it must change nothing about their relationship. But for that walk down the many stairs and the short boat trip back, he revels in the memory of having his hands on her because she had asked him to. He knows it is not an opportunity that will likely repeat itself, and he knows that tomorrow he will need to be her teacher once again with structure and boundaries that must not be crossed. But tonight - just for tonight - he allowed himself to be merely a man who had delighted in swirling a beautiful woman across the dance floor in time to the sounds of the violins and the cellos and the pianos.


	12. Chapter 12

It is Christmas Time.

The big holiday is a mere fortnight away, and for tonight's tea Madame Giry has procured a number of themed sweets, including spiced wine. Knowing that they will be busy with the upcoming shows, they have decided to hold their celebrations tonight.

Giry has some envelopes that arrived for them recently. She sits in her chair and holds them out to each of them, Christine easily reaching across from the couch and eagerly plucking hers out of Giry's hand. Erik, however, realizing that Giry is not in fact about to get up to give him his, is forced to rise from his chair in the far corner to receive it.

Once he does have it, he pauses before deciding to sit on the couch out of mere convenience. He is as far away as possible from Christine, but her heart skips a beat in joy at this development. She tears her letter open and scans over it quickly at first, then reads it again more slowly - it's from Meg, and several pages long, detailing the current gossip of those around her and situations she found amusing. Christine is certain she'll be writing a reply to her old friend that's just as long in the very near future.

She glances over at Erik, wondering who on earth would have sent him a letter. She holds Meg's letter up in front of her face, pretending to still be reading, but slyly looks over at the discarded envelope he's left on the couch cushion. It's addressed to Madame Giry, and the name above the return address is list as Nadir Khan, a name which sounds slightly familiar but she can't be certain. Of course this Nadir person could not have addressed the envelope to Erik, she thinks to herself. She uses the pretense of going over to place her letter on the desk to walk behind the couch and steal a look at the contents of Nadir's letter.

Erik can tell that Christine is hoping to steal a glance at what his friend has written. The poor girl is being terribly obvious, he thinks to himself - no one requires that amount of time to walk behind a couch. He presses the papers to his chest, hiding the words from her prying eyes, and twists slightly to look back at her. His blank face and his unblinking stare make Christine bite her lip in embarrassment at being caught. She puts her letter on the desk and stalks back to the couch, purposely avoiding Erik's eyes as she sits down again and crosses her legs. He turns to face her for a moment before slowly extending his arm and allowing her a look at the letter.

Her eyes light up in expectation as she leans across to see...

And he chuckles at her huff of confusion and disappointment- she can't read the strange print of flowing script in a foreign tongue.

She watches him with wonder as he goes back to reading it, still curious about who sent it and what it says.

Madame Giry has been absorbed in her own letter from Meg, and dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. She misses her daughter, but is pleased with the woman she's grown into.

They eat their snacks and treats and Christine and Giry talk about the various topics in her letters to them. Giry asks Erik how Nadir is doing, and Christine turns to listen eagerly. He keeps the subject brief, however, by saying that he was doing well and sent his regards to Giry.

How disappointing, Christine thought. She would have liked to hear more about this man who thought enough of Erik to send him a letter at Christmas time, but to actually ask seemed to verge on prying.

The spiced wine is delicious, and they all have more than one glass. Christine drinks hers a little too fast, the sweetness of it belying its strength. Her head feels as thought it's slightly spinning, so she eats another slice of cake in the hopes that it eases soon. As long as she does not stand she should be fine, she thinks.

Luckily, no one is in a hurry to go anywhere as they have found a topic all three of them are well versed in and revel in discussing - gossip about various Opera employees. Madame Giry is giving an impression of one of the new stage hands that's frighteningly good, and Erik produces a sound that may or may not actually qualify as a giggle and Christine is laughing until her sides ache from both of these things. It all feels so awful to sit there and talk about the annoying habits of their coworkers, but as each story and complaint comes to light they each find they have noticed the exact same thing and they feel a little better about it all. It might be slightly wicked, but it is all terribly funny so they keep going. Even Erik, who still spends time lurking around the place, brings up comments about people and knows just what the two women are talking about.

Feeling just a little guilty but not regretful, they turn the conversation to other matters. Future plans for operas and plays that Erik gives casting notes on, the predictions for the coming weather, and various and sundry topics that bubble up from their minds. Topic moves on to topic, the mood is light and the stories flow easily in part due to the wine. Christine hopes that the drink will have loosened Erik's tongue - he's always so awfully guarded, and while he is certainly more talkative tonight, she does not manage to get much from him in the way of personal information except to find that he's terribly fond of both cashews and strawberries. She has, however, used many moments during the night to scoot ever so slightly closer to him, and by now she's managed to cover most of the distance between them - she sits a mere dozen inches away from him. She's knows that there is no way he has not noticed, yet still he has not made to move away from her all night or mentioned the matter, which makes her inexplicably happy.

Eventually the conversation reaches a sleepy lull, and Madame Giry looks at the clock and winces. The hour is much later than they realized. She sighs as she stands, stretching her back.

"This has been so wonderful tonight, my dears, but I must be taking my leave now if I hope to get any sleep in before work."

She hugs Christine, who's feeling more stable on her feet by now (despite a few extra sips of spiced wine after her first two glasses) and even pats an affectionate hand on Erik's shoulder, a gesture he doesn't seem to mind as he smiles up at her. They say their goodnights and she exits the room, locking the door behind her with only minor difficulty.

They are alone together.

She looks at him where he sits across from her, so much closer than he's ever sat here in this room. He's staring down at his wine glass in his hands, apparently lost in thought. The firelight, still going strong, glints off of his mask.

The evening has been perfect, and she finally lets those words fall from her lips - not because she thinks the timing is right, not because she feels it's wise to do so, but simply because they are true and she can no longer contain them.

"Erik, I love you." her voice floats out softly.

He looks up at her, frozen where he sits, eyes wide.

And because she's finally said it, finally admitted it out loud, she feels emboldened to try something else, too.

She leans forward tentatively, closing the small gap between them, with the intent to kiss him.

She feels his hand on shoulder and for one glorious moment she thinks it's to pull her closer but then he's pushing her away from him, gently but firmly until she's leaning against the back of the couch once again.

When he's put some space between them he stands up.

"I think all that wine has gone to your head, you silly thing." his tone is teasing but his eyes are sad.

She bites her lip to hold back the tears. He doesn't believe her.

He's straightening his jacket as he heads towards the secret door.

"Don't worry about your lesson tomorrow - I want you to take the day off. You should have the entire holiday off, in fact. Perhaps we will begin again after the new year - but you're doing so well that you might not need my help anymore."

He's gone before she can say anything, but she wouldn't know what to say to that anyway.


	13. Chapter 13

He does not attend the next tea. At first they think perhaps he is merely late, but now the teapot has cooled and over an hour has passed and still he has not shown. His absence presses on Christine like a lead weight.

"How strange of our Opera Ghost to not appear." Giry remarks casually.

She is unprepared for the burst of sobs from Christine.

"Madame Giry! You need to check on him! Please, I need you to make sure he's okay! Something terrible has happened, I'm certain of it!"

Christine has visions of his underground home empty, all of his belongings packed and gone, spirited away to some unknown place where she will never see him anymore. Or worse, perhaps he has gone down into his coffin never to rise again.

She is nearly hysterical at this last thought, this image of him still and unmoving in that box that he uses for a bed that she hates so much.

Giry tries her best to calm her and assures her that she will travel underground to see what has happened.

Christine considers going herself, but she does not want to intrude if he truly does not wish to be around her - and if she should stumble in on his lifeless form she knew she would never recover.

Through her tears she tells Giry what occurred the previous week, how her feelings had grown and finally spilled out. How she had never wanted to hurt him by saying what she said, that she only wanted to be near to him. How she's offended him and ruined everything now. Giry pats Christine's hand and tries to reassure her, but she's uncertain of what exactly to say.

When Christine had quieted down and Giry felt it was safe to leave her, she took a lantern and headed down the corridor behind the secret door. She had not been down to his home as often as Christine, but she still knows the way and where to avoid traps.

It seems an eternity before she arrives. As she draws closer she hears organ music and she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. He is still here, then.

She tries to make her footfalls louder so as not to startled him as she approaches. She calls out his name but she's unsure he can hear her over the music. It's on her third attempt that he stops playing.

"What do you want, Madame?" his voice booms out to her, but he does not turn to face her and she realizes that this is because he not wearing his mask.

"We were worried when you didn't show up tonight."

A pause.

"Christine was very worried about you, and I promised I'd look in on you for her."

"I am fine, as you can see. You may return and tell her so."

Madame Giry wonders if these two will ever be able to talk out their feelings without having to use her as the go between. She sighs. Her two wayward charges.

"She told me what she told you last week."

His fingers tense on the keys, and for a moment she's afraid that he's about to shout her. But when he replies, his tone is soft and sad.

"She had been drinking, Madame Giry. It does not count. She did not know what she was saying."

There's something in the resigned way that he states it that twists at Giry's heart.

"That may be, but she just told me her feelings on this matter before I came down here, and she hasn't had anything to drink today."

"You should not keep the poor girl in suspense as to my condition." he tries to dismiss her. "I'm sure she's imaging all sorts of morbid situations."

"She says you canceled her lessons."

"She does not need them anymore. She can play and write beautifully."

"She told me she still wishes to continue them. I think she likes having reason just to be around you."

"I do not think it wise for her to spend so much time around me."

Giry sighs. He is so stubborn once he gets an idea stuck in his mind.

"So you do not love her anymore?" she goads him.

He slams his fists down on the keys, the discordant notes making her wince.

"You know that is not the case!" his voice echoes off the walls.

He nearly turns to face her before he remembers himself and stays facing the organ.

"She will grow weary of me, Madame. She will grow weary and bored and wish to leave me, and that is something I cannot handle."

He could not let her in only to have her leave him yet again. It would utterly annihilate his soul, he was certain of it. If the poor girl was getting muddled thoughts over what she felt towards him, then there must be distance between them because he was not strong enough to sustain himself after she came to her senses and ended whatever it was they might have.

He could handle his unrequited feelings - had handled them for years. But to have her be his and then change her mind - that would be impossible for him to cope with.

"So what is your plan, Monsieur?" she asks softly. "To hide here in the dark forever? To never see her again?"

He's quiet for a moment, thinking.

"Please tell her that I am all right. I do not want her to worry over my wellbeing. Tell her that I am busy for now, but that I will see her after the new year if I have time."

Giry nods and takes his message upstairs.


	14. Chapter 14

"He's busy?" she asks through the last of her tears.

She's relieved beyond belief that he is all right, but stung that he refuses to see her after she had poured her heart out to him.

"Busy with what?"

Giry hesitates.

"Composing, I think. He was playing the organ when I got there."

"So he is too busy to see me." she does not sound convinced.

"You know how geniuses are, dear." Giry tries to cheer her. "Maybe he will play his new composition for us when he's finished."

Christine smiles weakly. "Maybe so."

Composing. Ha.

Their tea times now consist only of herself and Giry, and it seems that this will be the case for the foreseeable future.

She is embarrassed to admit that she spends an entire week doing not much else but working and thinking wistfully of him - small sighs while she files paperwork, sad daydreams as she sells tickets, pining for his company as she prepares for bed, tears in the corner of her eyes at inopportune moments. She no longer finds her books of any interest, she skips her walks in the park, she hasn't touched her music homework since that night, and she even turns down the offer of cookies during tea. It's as though her life is suddenly on hold, frozen in that moment with thoughts only of him. She shakes herself when she realizes this. The role of the wilting flower does not suit her - Christine Daae is surely made of stronger stuff than that.

If he wishes to hide, that is his prerogative. Madame Giry had explained his hesitation during a deep heart to heart talk with her about her feelings. For the longest time Christine does not know how to ease those worries, how to convince him otherwise.

Then suddenly, she does.

He is composing? Very well. So is she.

Snapped out of her tear stained sulking, she writes and writes and writes. She channels every emotion, every thought, into her writing. It pours from her hand across paper after paper. Giry catches her writing notes while she should be working, and she can only shake her head and sigh.

Finally, on the last of the year, it is finished. She is not entirely satisfied with it - it is not a full length opera, for one, it is much too short. There are transitions she is unsure of, and variations she can't decide between. But she is certain of the story, of the heart of her little opera that she has given life. She has done all she could.

So she wraps it up with a ribbon and leaves it on the seat of a chair in box 5.

Her task finally finished for the moment, she takes a long bath that night and picks up a book once again. Perhaps she will visit the park on her next day off. Eyes tired from reading, she pulls the blanket up to her chin and drifts off to sleep with the melodies she's written playing in her mind.

She awakes early in the new year to find an envelope has been slipped under her door while she slept. She eagerly breaks open the red skull shaped wax seal and her eyes scan over the simple scrawl that she would recognize anywhere.

A request for her to look in her old dressing room.

Propriety and morals be damned - she races from her bedroom in naught but her nightdress and dressing gown, not caring who might catch a glimpse.

Halfway to her destination, she regrets not putting anything on her feet, but the sting of cold marble on her soles does little to slow her down.

Once inside her former dressing room, she spies another envelope on top of a rose in front of the mirror. This letter informs her to be in Giry's office at a quarter to midnight if her answer is yes.

She furrows her brow as she reads the simple letter again, not understanding. Her answer to what?

It's then that she glances at the rose and notices what's tied to the black ribbon.


	15. Chapter 15

Her hands are trembling as she undoes the ribbon on the rose's stem, slipping the diamond ring off of it. She places it on her finger, feeling as though she's still in a dream. She never wants this ring to leave her finger, ever. Even in the dull lighting of the dusty old dressing room, the diamond still manages to sparkle and takes her breath away.

There are hours and hours yet before she will see him, but she dearly hopes that perhaps he'll be somewhere in the air vents or behind a curtain or peering out from a crack in the wall and he'll see his ring upon her finger, and he'll know. Of course her answer is yes, of course it is.

The first thing she does after she does after leaving the dressing room and and getting changed for the day is to find Madame Giry and show her the letters and the ring. Giry hugs her tightly and congratulates her and cries before telling her to get back to work.

All day long her heart feels as though it will simply burst out of her chest. She can barely focus on her work for the day, always finding her eyes drawn to a clock, always counting the hours and minutes until that night.

After all the guests are settled in for the final show of the night, Madame Giry dismisses her early.

She clasps her hands and looks up her up down before letting her go.

"My dear little Christine, all grown up and practically a married lady now." she sighs. "Go and get ready for him now, dear."

Christine is almost out the door when Giry calls her back.

"There's just one last thing I must ask of you, Christine."

Giry smooths down her skirt anxiously, trying to find the right words, the correct way to say what's on her mind.

Christine nods solemnly, waiting to hear what she has to say.

"I know this night has been a long time in the making for you two, but... Please try to be respectful of my office." she raises an eyebrow at Christine, who promptly dissolves into a fit of giggles but gives her her word that nothing terribly untoward will happen anywhere in her office.

She has time now to wash up and fix her hair and makeup. She puts on the new dress she has been saving for a special occasion and hopes that he'll like it. Even after all of this, she still has extra time. She knows she should eat something, but she doesn't think she could even manage a sip of water though her throat is so dry. So she heads to Giry's office instead. She has far more than an hour to wait, and she knows that he will be punctual to the exact second, but she can't bear the thought of him possibly opening that door and her not being there on time - that after all of this, everything they've been through to get to this moment, that it might all come crashing down because of a misunderstanding that she was merely late and not rejecting him.

There's already a fire going in the fireplace. The clock above the secret door steadily ticks away the time. She paces the room and smooths down her skirt, fixes her curls, adjusts her sleeves. Quite simply, she doesn't know what to do with herself, and it takes all of her willpower to not simply dash down the corridors and through the catacombs and find him wherever he is and fling herself into his arms, even if she has to swim the entirety of the underground lake to do so.

She settles onto the couch and closes her eyes, attempting to take deep breaths. Every nerve in her body is thrumming and she feels lightheaded from it all. How she will not simply faint clean away when that door opens she hasn't the slightest idea.

Giry is right - this night has been a long time in the making. They have each changed so much since the last time they were nearly engaged, it seems like a lifetime ago. There's a sad irony, she thinks, that all the things he did back then to try to win her over were exactly the things that drove her away. Perhaps if, back then, he had been more like he is now then he never would have even been in competition with Raoul. Raoul did not have fits of anger or possessiveness or lie to her - but Raoul was not her Angel of Music either. She wonders, briefly, how much sooner she would have wanted to married Erik had it not been for those distortions of the soul. She had loved him even then, yes, but she knew she deserved a relationship with someone who didn't frighten her in the ways that Erik did at the time, and that it was not her job to stay and try to fix him into a better person.

But it does not do to dwell long on the past when the future is stretching out in front of her. He is no longer the man he once was, and now he is to be her husband and she holds no fear over any of that, no regrets. They will move forward together.

She watches the firelight dance over her engagement ring, how it picks up little flashes of color. After Raoul, she had not held high hopes of ever being anyone's fiancée again. Now, she cannot imagine her life any other way - it just feels right to be here with him, to wear his ring, to be planning this future.

She sighs happily as she leans back on the couch, drunk in love and nearly overwhelmed by it all. Her eyes find the clock and her mind continues its constant count of the moments that separate her from her future husband.


	16. Chapter 16

He was in the rafters when he noticed her in box 5. After he was certain she had left, he went down to see what it was she had placed there.

A small stack of papers, bound with a ribbon. What was it? He looked around. He couldn't read it here, whatever it was. Too risky. Back underground, then.

Once there, he set it on the counter and settled in for the evening before opening it. He lit the samovar, sliced a lemon into his teacup, kicked off his shoes and changed out of his cloak and into his robe before sitting down on his couch and opening the package.

He removed the blank cover page and saw the words "The Nightingale, by Christine Daae" on the second page. He smiled. Was this to be an opera, then? He continued flipping through the pages. There was a little story (complete with small drawings of the characters in the margins), and a few songs with lyrics, and several musical scores that were labeled with where they would fit into the story. It was highly amusing at first, but by the time he reached the end he was no longer smiling.

He read it a second time, because surely he's mistaken, surely he's reaching.

By the end of the third reading, he was pacing the floor, because he was not mistaken or reaching and what he thought was there is definitely there and now he has a choice to make.

Christine Daae's little opera about a nightingale who goes to the ends of earth and completes three impossible tasks to prove her undying devotion to her lover.

He cannot hide from this - from her - forever.

He stands on the edge of a precipice and he knows that one way or the other, he is going to fall. He decides that if he must fall, if there is no choice in that matter, then the only thing left to chose is which side to fall on - if his heart is going to be broken, if it must break (and it surely will), will it be because he hid away from the woman he worshipped and who thought she loved him in return or will it be because for one brief period in time he had been allowed to bask in her presence only to be cast out of paradise forevermore?

If he must suffer the prospect of a future devoid of Christine Daae, will he start that future now, or will he delay it by however much he can?

It's too much to think that perhaps she really will stay with him - she thinks she's sincere, yes she does, he's certain of that - but she does not know him like he knows himself. Love, or rather infatuation, has blinded her, he knows this. A few mere months of living with him will surely drive her away - she can stand to be around him for several hours at a time for their lessons and for tea, but to actually live with him is entirely different. He's never lived with anyone before, but he's aware that he has many annoying habits. Sweet Christine is likely far too kind to say anything when he's being obnoxious, and she'll have to suffer silently until finally one day she simply can't take it any longer and flees. She deserves so much more than him, and surely she will realize this sooner or later.

But as for now - she does love him. He is convinced that there will come a day when she does not, but that day is not today. Today, she still loves him. He has tried oh so hard to be good, to be noble, and he can't help but wonder if it would be wicked to accept her love when he knows that she will change her mind. But she offers it freely - and he thinks he's just desperate enough, just short sighted enough, to accept. He will inadvertently cause her pain one day because of how he is, but to continue to refuse her however misguided declarations of love will also cause her pain - is currently causing her pain. And he cannot bear to hurt her, so if he must cause her harm no matter what - let it be in the future, not now. Let her be happy, however naively, for now.

That is why he stands here behind the door that will swing out a section of the bookcase in the office.

Most of his thoughts up to this point have hinged on the assumption that Christine is being sincere with him. The darkest parts of his mind whisper to him that she's merely teasing him, winding him up - and look how well it's working! Worrying about her future happiness with him while she's probably planning on jilting him? And it would make sense, wouldn't it? More sense than her actually loving a beast like him! She's probably having a grand old laugh about it with Meg and her friends, laughing over her old idiot of a teacher still in love with her after everything that's happened. He'll open that door and the whole group of them will be there with mocking stares and pointing fingers and Christine will cackle and ask how he ever thought she'd actually be interested in him? A part of him knows that this must only be in his own mind - he's never known Christine to be cruel in any manner, surely playing such a trick on him is not in her nature - but it can be difficult to stay rational when those voices whisper in his ear, overpowering common sense and logic. He pushes such thoughts away as best he can, reminds himself of all the evidence to the contrary. Christine is his angel, she would never do such a thing to him... Would she?

He wishes he could take a deep breath but the ability to do so has apparently left him. He wants to believe that on the other side of this is his future bride, but despite all his reasoning to himself there is a part of his mind that still tells him this can never be - Daae is having a laugh at you, the room will be empty, and even if it isn't, even if she is there and her intentions are true, you will never be happy together because your wickedness will surely poison her, the evilness of your soul will pollute and corrupt her and for that sin - the sin of destroying the purity of an innocent angel - there will certainly be no forgiveness.

All these things run through his head as he stands there, hand outstretched to the door, the seconds slipping past to the moment when he will have to turn the knob and face his fate. His heart pounds in his ears and he almost considers turning and running, running until his legs can no longer support him.

But that would break her heart, to leave her like this. One does not break the heart of an angel unless one is a devil, and oh - he is so tired of being a devil.

He takes what breath he can manage, and pushes the door.

Wonder beyond measure - she is sitting there on the couch before the fire, her eyes gazing at him with such a soul-rending tenderness that he can barely stand it. Her lips part as though to speak as he enters the room, but she cannot find the words to bring her thoughts into being. Her hand rests gently over her heart, the fire's light illuminating the diamond ring on her finger - his ring. Their engagement ring.

He falls to his knees before her and grabs her hands, kissing them, resting his forehead on her knees, and he thinks maybe he is crying because he hears someone crying but he cannot be certain that the noise is coming from him - he cannot be certain of very many things at that moment - all he knows is that Christine is here and she is wearing his ring and she's here all on her own because she wants to be here, not because he's kidnapped her, not because he's threatened her boy, not because he's said some awful thing to force her to be here, but because she wants to be here and if she wants to be here, then that must mean that she wants him, too.

He does not understand it. He does not deserve it. But he will gladly, gladly take it.

He looks up at her with adoring eyes.

"Christine, are you certain?" he whispers, his voice strained from crying. "Are you very certain? I- I can never offer you normalcy."

She pulls him up to sit beside her on the couch and leans in close to him, her voice low.

"Normalcy is often overrated, my darling."

And she deftly pushes his mask back and kisses his lips.


	17. Chapter 17

The cacophony in his mind ceases as she pulls him to her. The paranoia towards her intentions fades away into nothingness as he returns her kisses - how could he have ever doubted his angel? Of course she loves him or she would not have returned to him time and time again, would not be here with him now otherwise. Let come what may in the future - all that matters is right here and now, this one singular moment.

Time seems to stand still as they sit there on the couch sharing languid caresses and long, slow kisses.

Christine's heart is triumphant. Finally she can embrace him in the way she's yearned to do for so  
long now. The entire world boils down to the two of them, as though nothing else exists.

They finally break away to catch their breath.

"Oh, Christine." he sighs, cradling her face with one trembling hand. "We must talk about your choice of musical transition between the third and fourth stanza of your second song."

This earns a laugh from her as she falls to his chest and his hands run through her hair.

"Is it really that terrible?" her voice is muffled as she rests her forehead on his shoulder.

"It is... Not the best." he presses a kiss to the top of her head. "But we will work on it together and come up with something that fits much better."

"I did the best I could without a teacher, you know."

It's his turn to chuckle.

"I know, love, but I did not say it was all bad. There are only a few places that need polishing, and it will be perfect. It will sound beautiful performed on stage."

She pulls away from him.

"You think it's good enough for the stage?"

"Well, its only about twenty minutes long right now. But if you keep adding to it, I'm sure it will draw quite a crowd."

She bites her lip shyly, his confidence in her work warming her heart. Unsure of how to respond to his praise, she unties his cravat and uses it to tug him closer to her, resuming her kisses and trailing them down his now bare neck. He continues the gentle trace of his fingers up and down her spine.

She feels the vibration of his words rather than hear them as he says them, too lost in her own thoughts and the sensations he was causing.

"What was that, darling?" she pauses.

"I said, do you think we'll be able to find a priest to marry us?" concern creases his face.

She pulls back to look at him properly.

"You want a priest to marry us?" she isn't certain she heard correctly. She knows he has had bad experiences with a priest when he was younger, and this question out of the blue takes her by surprise. "Why is that?"

He twirls one of her curls around his finger, eyes intent on that when he answers softly.

"Because you would want a priest."

Christine feels she is melting. She loves this man so dearly.

"Oh, Erik..."

He knows that her religion is important to her. In the past he had accidentally stumbled in upon her in the chapel lighting a small white candle and sending her prayers up to heaven - a private moment he did not wish to intrude upon or eavesdrop on, but as he was leaving he was struck to hear his name mentioned along with petitions for his safety and wellbeing and the memory of hearing those words was still one of his favorites. What he did not know, of course, was the frequency with which she brought his name before the saints in all the years she had known him, and of the candles she lit for him in the village chapel every single night during those long months in which she did not know his fate.

"It may not be easy, but I will not stop until I find one, no matter how far and wide I must search." she smiles at him.

He nods at this and brushes some stray curls away from her face.

"I am sorry that you will not be able to have a large ceremony with friends or a party afterwards."

"A small ceremony is just as well. It's okay."

Erik does not look convinced, but gives a sad smile to his fiancée who he is certain is only pretending on this matter to ease his mind.

"I mean it, Erik. The point of the thing is to declare our devotion to each other, not throw an elaborate spectacle. As long as we are husband and wife afterwards nothing else really matters."

He pulls his Christine to him in a hug, serving the dual purpose of feeling her close to remind him that this is really happening, and to quiet her, because he still cannot bring himself to believe that she's perfectly fine with this arrangement but he is certain that her pure heart will continue to try to convince him otherwise, so he pretends to accept this answer.

"I'm sorry I left you, after the Christmas party. I just- I had to be sure." he whispers.

She nods, her head on his shoulder.

"I understand."

He swallows hard, hoping his next words will not betray how close he is to tears.

"Christine, I- I am not an easy man to live with. If ever you should find the day where being with me no longer brings you joy... I do not wish for you to suffer, Christine. I will release you from any vows to me and you can be free once more, I swear it. All you have to do is say the word and I will let you go."

"Erik, love..." she looks up at him and sees the sorrow in his eyes. "I cannot imagine a day that you do not bring me joy."

"Oh? I can."

"That may be, but you're forgetting that I am already well aware that you are difficult. Besides, you may find that I am not the most perfect roommate either, you know. For all you know, I might leave dirty laundry strewn about everywhere or something."

He's silent for a few minutes, one hand gently brushing through her long curls.

"Do you leave dirty laundry strewn about?" he finally asks, curious.

"Erik!" she laughs. "That is not the point!"

She snuggles closer to him and sighs.

"Your offer of my freedom is very kind, and I do appreciate the sentiment of you worrying over my happiness, but we will cross that bridge only if we ever come to it, my dear. You get too caught up in your mind, I think. I love you terribly, and I don't see that changing anytime soon." she hesitates before continuing softly. "Remember, Erik, that even after everything I've seen you say and do in the past, I still wrote you an opera, I'm still wearing your ring, and I'm still here in your arms. 'Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar-'"

"'But never doubt I love.'" he finishes quietly.

He holds her a little tighter and silent redoubles his vow to himself that he will protect her from harm, that he will cherish her for as long as he can.

They are both loath to leave the room, despite the late hour. The prospect of parting, even for a few scant hours of sleep, seems ludicrous.

She can't remember the last time she felt this content, this safe. It must have been before her father died, certainly. There are no longer any buzzing worries in the corner of her mind, no what-ifs or maybes. She feels a peace deep down in her soul - all is how it should be. The troubles that will arrive with the coming days have no place here now. She loves him, and he loves her too, and surely together they can face and deal with whatever is in store.

"Erik... Do you think, if it were possible... Would you be able to stay the rest of the night with me in my room?"

"Christine!" he feigns a scandalized tone before lowering his voice to husky timbre. "Not until we are married."

She shoves at him playfully and huffs.

"No! I didn't mean like that! I know it's probably silly, but I'm just..." she squirms in his arms, realizing it sounds not probably silly but definitely silly, yet pushes on anyway. "I'm afraid all this will disappear if I let it out of my sight. Like we'll leave this room and tomorrow it'll be like none of this ever happened."

He hums thoughtfully.

"I know just what you mean. But unfortunately we cannot take the risk of me being seen if I were to stay in your room. Besides, it is already tomorrow."

A glance at the clock confirms this. In fact, it is so far into 'tomorrow' that she fears she very likely will run into one of the employees whose job is to clean the floors in the early morning.

"You must be getting some sleep before you go to work, dear." he tells her in a tone that brokers no disagreement. "It's not healthy and I won't have you fainting of exhaustion halfway through your day on account of me."

She briefly considers asking that if he can't stay up here with her, could she not go with Erik into the catacombs? But somehow the words don't make it out because now he's standing up and pulling her to her feet with him. He murmurs his goodbye before pressing a chaste kiss to the side her face and slipping back behind the secret door.

Christine walks back to her room, her mind floating in a daze with thoughts of love and her hand resting on her check where he had kissed her last. If she passes anyone in the halls, she doesn't notice them. It's only now that she realizes how tired she is - it has been an incredibly long day. She falls asleep as soon as her head touches the pillow.


	18. Chapter 18

True to his word he continues their lessons, helping her compose new pieces for her opera, and she continues her quest for a priest who won't ask too many questions.

Christine feels a joy that is almost comparable to being on stage, a feeling she thought for certain was lost to her forever. She still wishes she had her voice - less now for the stardom it provided her, and more because she wishes to use it to sing every love song she knows to Erik. She will never tire of seeing that hope and adoration in his eyes, something that's there even when she gives him even the briefest of affections or simplest words of love, so she determines to shower him with lavish affection for the rest of her days.

Erik will never understand his sheer luck at receiving the love of such a perfect woman, so he tries his best - not to be worthy of such a thing, no, he could never be that - he tries instead to be the best that he can so as to not be quite as unworthy as he was before. He dotes on her as much as he possibly can - he cooks elaborate meals for her every day, he leaves dozens of roses in her room at least once a week (where does he manage to procure such flowers? she often wonders to herself, but never asks), often in the evenings he plays some of his compositions or sings or reads poetry for her while she rests on his couch with her feet propped on a pillow. There is very little he would not do for her, practically no request she could make that he would deny her. The only time that he is not quite her gentle little lamb that she may do anything she pleased with, the only time in which he is strict with her, is during their lessons.

He tries to maintain some semblance of professionalism during these hours, a sort of detachment from the rest of their time together - because if he didn't, surely their thoughts (not to mention their hands) would start to wander, and then where would they be? No, he must make certain that their music lessons are single-mindedly focused on music alone.

It is not often easy to do so, as Christine has a wicked sense of humor and occasionally tries to break his focus - resting her head on his shoulder to cause him to falter in the tempo of his playing, a hand placed gently on his knee that makes him forget what he just saying. She knows she ought not delight in teasing him so, but it amuses her to no end to see the confusion on his face as he wars with himself regarding what to do about the interruption - he cannot bring himself to scold her for touching him, but also cannot abide being distracted when he's focused on music. So he'll forge on, frowning hard in concentration, pretending her head is not leaning against him, or he'll pick up her hand and kiss her palm before firmly depositing it back in the lap of its owner and turning once again to whatever point he was trying to make before his little minx of a fiancée decided to have some fun.

She worries sometimes that she is being cruel to carry on such a game, but he has never seemed to have been angry over it, nor has he ever said anything about it. But even so there times her conscience chastises her over it, so every now and then she will swear off teasing him in such a manner and she manages to do so for a while, but she finds herself unable to stop entirely.

Christine sprawls out on the rug in front of the fireplace, chin propped up on her hands, watching her fiancé read over her latest revisions as he sits on the couch in a dignified manner.

He holds a page out to her and gestures at a mark.

"I thought I had told you last week that this note would sound better two octaves lower."

She raises an eyebrow.

"You told me, yes."

"Yet it remains exactly where it was before my advice."

"Well... You may think it sounds better lower, but I like it how I wrote it."

He says nothing, but he continues to hold the offending staves out to her.

She scoffs, amusement quirking her lips.

"Are you saying I am wrong?"

He looks at the page again, considering, before he places it facedown on the couch cushion.

"I am not saying you are wrong." he says in a measured tone, smoothing his hands down his vest collar. "I am merely saying, I think you should reconsider."

"I already considered it when you suggested it." she tries her hardest to hide the mirth in her voice. He can be so particular about certain things, and she loves to tease him over them.

"Then I am merely suggesting that you reconsider your consideration."

She's laughing as she rises from the floor and throws her arms around him.

"But I like this way better, darling. It just doesn't feel quite the same to me, even if you do think it would flow better. I just like how it sounds." she nestles her face in the crook of his neck.

He does not move from his position, ignoring how she's pressed against him and practically sitting in his lap, and gives a weary, over exaggerated sigh which makes Christine roll her eyes.

"If you wish to ignore the expert advice of your poor, old teacher, that is entirely your choice, Christine."

She can't help but snicker at this and wonder how much willpower he's currently using to keep his hands firmly on his knees and not on her - surely quite a lot, as his knuckles are turning white.

It isn't until several weeks into their engagement that something happens that makes her realize she is always the one to initiate physical contact between them.

She's had a short day at work, so she's come downstairs to rest on his couch and read a book.

She can hear Erik milling about in the other rooms and she wonders what he's at, since he normally moves around so silently the deliberate sound of his footfalls are surely for her.

He walks by the open door to the room she's in and glances in no less than four times during his wandering about, and on the fifth time he stops in the doorway for a few seconds before hesitatingly entering the room. She glances up at him from her book and smiles warmly.

His steps are less hesitant now as he crosses the room and sits on the opposite end of the couch she's resting on. He's completely silent, so she continues her reading.

After a few minutes she becomes aware that he's been doing nothing but stare at her since sitting down.

She marks her place in the book and turns to him. He's nervously fidgeting with the onyx ring he wears. Perhaps he's wanting to talk but doesn't wish to interrupt her.

"Erik, did you want something?"

"No!" the words are out quickly, defensively almost.

He twists away from her and she doesn't press the matter even though she isn't convinced.

But it's not two minutes later before he's turned to face her again, and he's graduated to actually wringing his hands.

Her heart twists at the sight of him this way.

"Is something wrong, love?" she puts the book on the table, concern written across her face.

He looks down at his hands now, refusing to meet her eye.

"No, nothing's wrong." his voice is quiet.

But she doesn't believe him, knows that there must be something awfully wrong to cause the fearsome Phantom of the Opera behave so nervously. So she scoots over to sit next to him, puts her arms around him and kisses him. His arms go around her immediately and he's returning the kiss so eagerly that Christine realizes this was probably why he came in the room in the first place.

"Did you come in here because you wanted to kiss me?" she asks gently when she pulls away.

He nods.

"Erik, you know you don't have to wait for me to kiss you first, right?"

"I do not wish to force you, if you do not wish to be kissed."

After finally gaining the one thing in life he has ever wanted, he is terrified that one wrong move, one too many liberties taken will shatter this seemingly fragile thing. He couldn't bear to know that he might cause her pain, and what could be more painful than a monster forcing you to kiss it?

Her heart melts at these words. Her poor, shy fiancé, so unused to having someone who loves him.

"Well, you can always ask me first. I'll almost certainly say yes every time."

He says nothing, and she resolves to pay more attention to his behavior - how many times might she have already missed moments in which he was hoping for something but didn't know how to ask her, moments that she had overlooked yet he had taken to mean that she did not want him to touch her?

"There are very few moments I do not wish to kiss you, you know." she adds.

He thinks about her words for a few moments before replying.

"So there are some moments in which you do not wish to kiss me, then."

He is vindicated. He knew it.

"Well of course, Erik - sometimes I am asleep."

This is not the answer he was expecting, and he cannot help but smile at it.

Surely enough, now that she knows what to look for, she notices his odd little moods of timidity at certain times - twisting the edge of his cape in his hands when they're on the roof looking out at the snow covered lights of Paris, biting his lip as he stands in the corner and watches her knitting a scarf.

She obliges him each time, reminding him afterwards that he need not live in such anguish over his touch, that all he has to do is ask. This goes on this way for so long that she begins to lose hope that he will ever be able to gather the nerve to voice his desires.

It's not until one day that she's helping him cook lunch that it finally happens.

He's devised a soup with various vegetables and spices, and once everything is chopped and measured and into the pot, all that's left to do is wait for it to boil and to clean the dishes. It's as she's putting the cutting board into the sink that she feels his hand on her shoulder.

"Christine." his voice is small and pleading, so unlike how it was just moments ago when they were joking and laughing.

"Please. May I-" he can't say the rest of the words, so certain he is that she will deny him.

She quickly turns around to face him.

"Of course you can, Erik!"

He stoops down slightly to press a small kiss to the corner of her mouth.

She's surprised, not only that he managed to say something, but that all he wanted was something so small. She thinks at first perhaps he's shied away from trying anything more, that he lost his nerve to follow through, but he looks so happy afterwards that she concludes it really was all that he wanted.

He becomes marginally better about the whole issue after that. Each 'yes' emboldens him towards asking again in the future, though he isn't sure he will ever reach a point where the pounding in his chest when he asks is entirely from desire and not tinged with fear. He makes no mention of this to Christine - he doesn't have to, as the anxiety is often clearly visible, but Christine vows to herself that somehow or someway she will help him break down that fear until there's nothing left of it, no matter how long it takes her.


	19. Chapter 19

Christine has news she can barely wait to share.

But wait she must, because she still has a full day of work ahead of her. It's in the afternoon when she's sitting with another young woman polishing the opera glasses for that evening's performance. They sit together in silence - Christine likes the girl well enough, but she's entirely consumed within her own thoughts at that moment.

Her reverie does not break until she hears a familiar scrabbling noise coming from inside the walls, and her heart races.

The young woman looks up, concerned.

"What's that noise?"

Christine laughs.

"Rats, Mademoiselle! Silly old rats in the walls. They're quite troublesome, you know, and impossible to get rid of."

The noise stops.

"Are you sure?" she does not look convinced.

Christine widens her eyes and pauses her work.

"What else could it possibly be?" her mouth quirks at the edges. "A ghost, perhaps?"

The girl laughs.

"Oh, of course not. That would be absolutely ridiculous!"

Christine motions to a box of already cleaned glasses.

"Would you mind taking these to the concierge box?"

She nods and carries the box off.

Christine watches her until she's out of sight, glancing around to make sure no one else is near.

"She's gone now." she calls out in a low tone.

A voice wafts down from the air vent above her.

"You know, it could have been the ghost of a rat."

She rolls her eyes.

"That would still count as a ghost, my love."

A pause.

"I suppose."

"I have excellent news, Erik."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I have found a priest willing to marry us in the chapel!"

"How soon?"

"Next week, if we wish it."

"Oh, Christine."

She hears an odd noise and glances up. He's attempting to stick his hand through the slats on the vent, but only manages to fit several fingers through.

She suppresses a fit of laughter at the sight and reaches her hand up to touch his.

"I will send word to Meg right away, and when I know she's able to come, I'll contact a baker."

They end up having to wait two weeks instead, for that is the soonest that Meg can get away and visit. Her dress, having already been made in advance, was ready to go. She had not told the priest a lie to get him to agree, not exactly - lying to a priest was not how she wanted to start their marriage - but she had indicated her husband-to-be was terribly shy and would thus be wearing a mask, and that for sentimental reasons they wanted to have the ceremony in the chapel inside of the Opera House. The cake she orders is small but lovely in its own way.

It is certainly not the kind of wedding she had imagined as a child, and most certainly not the kind of wedding she had been planning with Raoul. Had anyone told her as a young girl that her wedding would be underground and consist of less than five people total, she likely would have burst into tears immediately. But as she makes the arrangements for her wedding now, she truly cannot find it in herself to be disappointed in her circumstances.

It is sad, of course, that Erik cannot live as a normal man, that the reason their wedding will be so small is due to the cruelty of the world towards him, but she does not hold any regret towards loving him. She would marry him even if they couldn't invite any guests at all - even if they couldn't even have a ceremony to begin with. She honestly had not expected to have one in the first place, between knowing that he could not safely leave the Opera House and knowing that a priest had forced him to endure an exorcism as a child which had left scars that still lingered on his body and in his mind.

She had thought, in those times in which she had fantasized about this scenario since returning, that any wedding of theirs would have consisted only of vows to each other in their solitude, heard only by themselves and by God. It would not have been so terrible to have only that. So by comparison, she was quite surprised at how much their wedding actually would have - it was nearly a normal wedding. She would have Meg, her dearest friend by her side, and Madame Giry was almost like a mother to her - even Erik would be inviting a guest, he had mentioned that an old friend would be attending. And the priest, of course, at Erik's own insistence, too! Enough people to buy a cake for - not a very big one with so many tiers, but a cake all the same, gleaming white and covered in flowers and swirls made of frosting, with a delicate taste that would melt in your mouth.

No, it is not the wedding she's always dreamed of, but it is more than she hoped for given the circumstances.

The man she is marrying, however - he exceeds her dreams in many regards. He loves her so intensely, so passionately, and without his former possessiveness to taint it. He treats her as though she's the most precious thing on earth, and it almost embarrasses her at times - she is certainly no angel, she is very flawed as all people are, but Erik views her as nearly divine. It worries her occasionally, because surely it's not good to romanticize and idealize someone so much, but so far it hasn't led to anything terrible and she knows for a fact that no amount of insistence on her part will make him believe otherwise about her.

She can hardly blame him, when she thinks about it. He's had a terrible life, with only a handful of people who have ever shown him kindness of any sort while the vast majority had defaulted to cruelty. He'd gone his whole life thinking that no one would ever look at him with love. Who knows how many years he'd gone without anyone even calling him by his name? Only titles for so long - even here in the Opera House with her, The Angel of Music. His sad childhood as The Living Corpse in the traveling circus, his time as The Angel of Death in Persia... She shudders to think of those years spent so far away in such terrible activities, and finds a strange irony in how she can feel so safe in the arms of a man who once was an assassin. She has not heard more than a few sentences about those dark years, the briefest of explanations with very little detail, but she finds she does not want to know any more. Those years clearly pain him still, and she holds no worries that he might one day return to such things. He is no longer the Angel of Death or the Living Corpse, he is simply Erik. So she calls him by his name as often as she can, as though to make up for all the years that he was made to be something - someone - other than what he was.

She tries to make up for the years he spent without any touch, as well. They have agreed to live separately until they are officially married, but really it seems the only difference between now and then is that she currently sleeps alone in her room upstairs, for they spend quite a lot of time together otherwise. She takes most of her meals with him, spends her lesson times with him, and often stays with him until it's time to go to bed. She'll sit close to him when reading on the couch, and more often than not they will end up with her leaning against him and his arms around her or with his head resting in her lap as she pets his hair. She'll squeeze his hand as she thanks him for cooking, or touch his shoulder while they're discussing something. She greets him each day with a kiss, and finds reasons to repeat the action throughout the day. Each night he escorts back upstairs, walking side by side as she holds to his arm. Before they part for the evening they'll share one last embrace and kiss, and there have been more than several times that this nightly ritual has lingered to the point that she very nearly reconsidered her former stance on sharing beds before marriage and almost asked him to join her in her room.

She knows that Erik had feared that the more time she spent with him the more she would grow bored of him, or annoyed with him. There are moments of annoyance, yes, but that's only to be expected in any sort of relationship, it is not specific to Erik in any way. She finds instead that the more time she spends around him, the more she wants to be around him. She imagines that this won't always be the case, that at some point the burning flame of infatuation will die down, but she knows that the core of their love will remain. There will be days where she needs her space and times away from him, but those things won't mean she loves him any less, and she hopes that by the time those days come around Erik will realize that too.

She ponders these thing often, as she does tonight as she lays on the couch and watches him work at his composing by the organ. He's entirely lost in thought and muttering to himself, and she finds this utterly adorable. The candlelight glints off of his mask and illuminates his features, and not for the first time she's struck by how attractive she finds him. A small blush creeps across her cheeks and she smiles. She does wish that he wouldn't feel the need to wear his mask so often, especially when he's just around her - she truly doesn't mind his face anymore and doesn't want him to feel like he has to hide. She wants him to feel accepted, wants him to know she loves him no matter what, but if he's truly more comfortable with it on then she doesn't want to push him.

One day, she tells herself, maybe one day he'll feel more confident and start to wear it less. Already she has noticed some improvement in this area - there are occasions where he will leave it off for a while, such as in the mornings when he's too caught up in cooking to remember to put it on before she comes downstairs, or the times he'll let her slide it off as she runs her hands through his wig, but invariably he always puts it back on sooner or later. She wonders if by now it feels like an extension of him rather than a concealment, as if he isn't quite complete without it. She mentally makes a note to ask him one day how he truly feels about it.

Erik glances up at her, as if noticing her presence across the room for the first time. He tries to focus on his work once more, but now he fidgets nervously, his concentration broken.

The smile on her face grows wider.

"What's the matter, Erik?"

He fiddles with the quill, uncaring of the red ink he's getting on his fingers. He dares not look up as he answers.

"My Nightingale is far too beautiful over there in candlelight, I have lost my train of thought over it."

"Oh? That's quite funny - I was just thinking the same thing about my Angel."


	20. Chapter 20

Nadir looked at the mail from the day and smiled. Like clockwork, the reply to the letter he sent three days ago is here, just like it always had been for the past several years now.

They haven't always kept such close contact - there hasn't always been so much to discuss in the past. Opera Ghosts can be notoriously hard to hold a conversation with.

But after it had all happened, all of the terrible business with the mob in the catacombs, he had revived a short note to assuage his fears as to the fate of his old friend. Nadir had sent a reply asking questions he honestly was not expecting the answers to, and was surprised beyond belief when Erik had sent page after page answering those questions - pouring out every detail, every emotion, every thought, as though giving his confession to a priest. It was very unlike Erik, he had thought. Perhaps it had all finally become too much for him. So Nadir wrote back again with his thoughts on Erik's thoughts, and Erik had replied with questions of his own, and Nadir had answered them as best he could, and before either of them knew it they both had large stacks of their correspondence in piles and piles.

Nadir has kept them all, and unbeknownst to him, Erik has also kept all of his. Erik, however, knew that the Daroga would be keeping all of his letters to him - that's just the kind of person he was. With everything written in Arabic, there was next to no fear of the letters being read even if they were intercepted along the lines, so both saw fit to delve deeply into all sorts of matters. Each one is typically rather long, but snippets here and there get to the heart of the matter very often.

"She kissed me, Daroga, and wept. I sent her away, and I feel now that I am dying - dying of love for her."

"Death is never the end of the story, old friend. Let die the things in you that must, and dare to rise again from the ashes of them, like a phoenix. You will survive this, even if it doesn't feel like it now."

"I dream of her often, Daroga. I don't know what to do with myself without her here."

"One must have a reason for going forward in life that isn't another person. It does not do to wrap ones life around another, because as you've found, should life's journey take them on a different path than you, you are now left with without purpose and direction. You must find a way now to pick up the pieces and move forward without her."

"I am ashamed to admit that sometimes I wonder if I should have let her go, if perhaps instead I should have sent the boy away alone and kept her here with me. She did, after all, choose me, did she not?"

"It was the right choice, Erik. A love that seeks to possess is but a poor imitation of love - in its attempt to fully dominate the object of its affection it ends up choking the life out of it. Sending her away was the right thing to do - very likely the only right choice you made in that whole sorry affair. She may have picked you, but you coerced her into doing so, and that is not a true choice."

Nadir does not hold back when he feels there is something to chastise Erik over - and he finds plenty, especially after reading what happened with Christine and Raoul under the Opera House. Though he always tries to word things in the most gentle manner, he gets replies on occasion that make him chuckle because he can just picture Erik bristling with indignation as he wrote them.

"You must better yourself in this regard, Erik. You do yourself no favors with that mentality, and it's surely one of the things Miss Daae found very offputting."

"Daroga - this is exactly the kind of thing I can picture you saying. In fact, I have already pictured you saying it before you saw need to waste precious moments writing it down to me. This begs the question of why I bother to write you when my own mind can provide the very same words you send me?"

Though he might send the occasional insult, he still always replies, always poses another question, so his feelings cannot be to terribly hurt by the truth of the matter.

"She came back Daroga - she is back! Christine, here! This is urgent, please, I do not wish to frighten her away again. You must help me, as I'm to be her teacher once more at her own request."

"You have been making many improvements, friend. Keep up the path you have been traveling on and things will go smoothly. I'm certain you remember everything we've discussed, and that you'll remember that Christine is not a prize to be won but a woman to be respected."

"I never thought I would see her again, and yet here she is with me daily now. It's rather humbling, I must admit, after all I put her through... Her voice is still beautiful, Daroga, and not a day goes by that I am not immensely grateful for this opportunity. I can't help but wonder, sometimes, if her continued lessons mean that, perhaps, on some level, she still cares for me... She doesn't love me, Daroga, I'm well aware of this, but surely it would not be too far of a reach to hope that she cares for me, just a little bit?"

"I will be blunt with you, old friend. After everything that happened, Daae would be well within her rights to hate you. However, as you have correctly guessed, one typically does not choose to voluntarily spend so much time in the company of a person one hates - so I do suppose you could infer, if not actual care towards you, at the very least an absence of a great hatred."

"My Christine is leaving me, Daroga. Yes, I know that she is not mine, I surely have no claim to her - but even still I cannot help but think of her as such - I still love her just as much as I always have, if not more. But she is leaving, and I must let her do so - she will be touring, and I know she has dreamed of this for ages now. She is purely ecstatic over it, to the point that I cannot help feeling joy over it as well - but then I remember that the cause of her happiness will mean sorrow for me, and that does put a bit of a damper on it all. I want her to be happy, I want her to achieve her dreams, I want nothing more than that - but am I cursed, Daroga, that her happiness must come at the expense of my own heart?"

"You are not cursed, Erik. You've simply found that you value her wants above your own, but that does mean you no longer feel those wants. I heard her sing at last nights performance, and I'm not at all surprised that there is demand for her to tour - you should be quite proud of your student. All of the hard work both of you have put in is paying off, and perhaps you can find some comfort in the thought that it was you who made it possible for her to achieve her dreams."

"I do not think a moment goes by that I do not miss her - it's terribly quiet here without her. I so looked forward to our lessons each day, but now I find I can look forward to articles in the newspaper about her. She sends letters every so often to Giry, and she always closes them 'give my regards to our mutual friend' - her friend, Daroga! I even asked Giry if I could look at the letter, because I thought for certain Giry was merely adding that part in when she'd read them to me in an attempt to cheer me up, but it was truly there in Christine's own beautiful penmanship, 'our friend'! It does so warm my heart to know that she thinks of me fondly, even though we must parted for now. Do you know what she wrote in her last letter, about her visit to the conservatory in Madrid where she sang? She said that it was beautiful and that she 'wished her teacher could have been there to see it with her'. I nearly wept when I read those words - that in the midst of such beauty her thoughts turned to me and she wanted me there with her."

"I am pleased to hear these things, Erik. Her friendship is truly something to cherish, especially knowing that it is given to you freely."

"Im afraid I've hurt her once again, Daroga, entirely without meaning to. She was so afraid to see me, you should have seen her weeping on that couch. But it turned out all right - or as all right as it can be, considering what has happened. My poor Nightingale will never sing again, and the entire world is the less for it."

"My sympathies to you all. It is not easy to lose something so precious. The world may seem very dull indeed for some time afterwards, but trust that there will come a day when loss is not felt so keenly - though, of course, it may never go away entirely."

"Daroga - she asked me to go to the masquerade with her. What do you think this means?"

"I believe that it means, dear Erik, that she wishes to go to the masquerade with you."

The letter arrive approximately two to three times a week. In this manner Nadir is kept up to date on the happenings in regards to Christine.

But now the letters have ceased to arrive for a long while. He almost starts to fear that perhaps Erik has relapsed into his olds ways - perhaps he's too busy holding Daae prisoner to write - but he maintains confidence that Erik is sincere in his desire to change, and hopes that nothing too troublesome has occurred.

When the next letter finally does arrive, the envelope is awfully thick.

"Dear Daroga-" he raises an eyebrow at the opening. Dear, is it?

"I don't know how to tell you this."

Concern furrows his brow.

"But Christine and I are getting married."

A pause. He reads that sentence again.

"I asked her, and she agreed. Or rather, she asked me in the form of an opera and I said yes - and then I had to ask her again because I could not believe my luck in this matter. Nevertheless, for some unknowable reason the poor girl has seen fit to be the wife of a wretch like me, so enclosed is an invitation to the wedding. I do hope you can make it, because otherwise it will just be me and Christine and Giry and her daughter and the priest, and I fear that it would be dreadfully awkward with only two witnesses. Yes, Daroga - a priest, you read that correctly. And at my own suggestion, too - there's very little I would not do for her - in fact should she ask it of me I might even break that promise I made to you all those ages ago. (That was a joke, Daroga, please do not get your feathers ruffled over it. Christine is terribly squeamish over such things, she would surely never ask me to murder anyone.) Anyway, I await your reply. Can you believe it, Daroga? Me - a married man - me! I can scarcely wrap my mind around it. I am counting on you showing up, you know, because I have already told everyone that you will, you see - and if you don't then I will look quite the liar when I said I had a friend, and I feel they already don't believe me in this matter. If you could prove them wrong in this, it would be greatly appreciated."

Nadir chuckles with amusement. He would not miss the day of Erik's wedding for the world.


	21. Chapter 21

Christine awakes the morning of her wedding with butterflies in her stomach. How she managed any sleep that night she has no idea. Her last day before she is a wedded woman! Mere hours are left now.

Meg arrives just after breakfast and she greets her with a tight hug. She is so glad her best friend is here to share this day with her. Christine thinks back to Meg's wedding, where she sang at the reception. It's a beautiful memory, but one that's tinged with a little sadness now too.

Meg helps her apply her makeup and pin her curls up into an elaborate style.

"Just think -" Meg sighs dreamily. "You're going to be Madame Phantom."

Christine giggles. "I don't think that's how it works, Meg."

Meg frowns in concentration as a unruly curl won't stay down.

"You're right." she pauses in thought. "You'll be Madame de L'Opéra. Phantom is clearly his first name."

Christine fears her makeup is going to run is her friend keeps this up - she's laughing so hard that her eyes are already watering and the day has barely begun.

"But really, what is your new last name going to be?"

"I'm keeping it as Daae. Erik doesn't really have a last name. He's had aliases, but none are actually his family name."

Meg gives an understanding nod.

"Well then, I think there is only one solution."

Their eyes meet in mirror, Christine curious as to what her friend will say.

"Obviously, he will have to become Erik Daae."

Christine gives a snort of laughter at this thought and the serious way that Meg states it, but she must admit that she is not at all opposed to the concept.

Madame Giry is busy decorating her office for the reception. She's procured dozen upon dozens of flowers which she tucks into every nook and corner or the room, giving the appearance of being inside a garden. It's a shame, she thinks, that her office has no windows to let any natural light in, but they will make due with what they have. She sighs happily as she goes about her task. Christine's happiness has been infectious. When she had to cut her tour short, Giry had known that perhaps one day her former ward's sadness would lift but she had not imagined that such joy was so close in her future, or was to be found in this particular scenario. She hopes that such joy will continue for everyone involved.

Nadir rows the gondola to the shore, finding Erik pacing back forth before the fireplace. The man is nearly in a full blown panic because his fingers have seemingly forgotten how to tie his cravat.

"Sit down, Erik." Nadir puts a hand on his shoulder.

Erik sits obediently, and Nadir raises an eyebrow at this. Surely a sign of his nerves, that the man complied without a retort of any kind. He smiles kindly at him.

"Lift your head."

Nadir wraps the silk around his neck, tying it in the style he knows Erik is fond of, and pinning it in place with the jeweled stick Erik hands him.

Erik has come so far to be where he is today, and his friend could not be prouder of him. To marry Christine - such an event surely could never have taken place if he had stayed as he was all those years ago when he had pulled her off the stage during Don Juan Triumphant and threatened the Vicomte's life. But Erik had worked hard at change, and not because he thought there was a reward at the end, not because he thought he could win Christine back, but he changed for the sake of changing, to be better for the sake of being better because it was the right thing to do. That made this day all the more sweet, Nadir thought, that there were second chances after all even when they weren't expected.

He finishes with the cravat and pats him on the shoulder again.

"Thank you, Nadir." Erik says softly, looking down.

Nadir knows he isn't just talking about the cravat.

"What else are friends for?"

Erik wonders to himself where he would be without Nadir's patient guidance, however needling it could be at times. Who knows what treachery his own poisonous mind would have whispered to him after the big fiasco if he had stayed in his solitude. But Nadir had been there to listen to every last mortifying word, every shameful secret and private thought, and he was immensely grateful for it now even if he hadn't always been so at the time. He almost hadn't reached out to him in such a way, very nearly leaving off their conversation after the first note to let him know that he still lived. But surely Nadir had done something right, had some secret knowledge about love, Erik had figured, to hear him talk about him and his wife who were apparently quite happy together. So he had asked him, and he didn't always like the answers, but he had to admit that the man generally knew what he was talking about. Surely, Erik would not be mere steps away from wedded bliss if he hadn't.

Christine's heart is pounding as Meg finishes tying her corset. Her fingers are trembling as she adjusts the sleeves of her gown, and Meg grins at her in the mirror as she does up the numerous buttons on the back of it.

"You look beautiful, Christine, like a dream come true. Are you ready?"

Christine does not feel ready - suddenly the sheer enormity of the day has crashed down upon her. But she reminds herself who it is waiting for her down in the chapel - surely they've been through enough together to not feel nervous about this. But she can't help how she feels.

"Oh, Meg! You're the best friend I could have asked for, you know?" she wraps her arms her in a tight embrace, careful not to smudge her makeup. "I feel so silly right now, I can't stop shaking!"

"It's alright, Christine!" Meg laughs. "You'll be fine, love. There's nothing to be frightened of!"

Christine takes as deep a breath as she can with the corset, and nods at her friend's words.

She turns to face the doorway.

"I'm ready."

Nadir is certain the man is going to dissolve into a puddle of nerves at any moment.

"I'll row, Erik." he offers as they step into the boat.

He doesn't trust that Erik will not accidentally tip the whole boat over in his current state.

He nods impatiently and hands the oar to Nadir.

The trip seems to stretch on forever. Nadir is purposely drawing it out, Erik is sure of it - it's never taken this long before! He looks down at his legs. Will this blasted pins-and-needles feeling ever go away? How dare his body betray him at such a crucial moment! He feels unusually irritable - even the patches of moss on the stone walls find a way to annoy him.

The boat ride finally ends and as they walk down the corridor leading to the chapel his annoyance goes away and leaves only what it was masking - sheer terror. He doesn't know how to be a husband! He barely knows how to be a person! The floor is suddenly tilting terribly and he has to lean against the wall for support. He's about to faint - no, scratch that - he's about to die! He's going to die and leave poor Christine a widow before they're even married!

"Erik? Do you need a moment?" Nadir's concerned voice reaches through his haze. "Take a deep breath - you'll be ok. Let this feeling pass, don't fight it."

Erik nods dumbly. He attempts to let the tension in his shoulders fall away - a difficult task, considering he's certain he's about to fall through the floor. But he doesn't faint, and he certainly doesn't die, and the room seems to spin a little less. Nadir is holding on to his arm and instructing him to breath.

The feeling does pass soon after he lets it flood through him and ceases to struggle against it. In its wake he realizes they've been standing there for some time - nearly fifteen minutes, if not more.

"Were going to be late." he grits out, suddenly ashamed of his fit.

"There is no rush, we have plenty of time."

Nadir makes him stand there until he's certain that he's back to normal.

"Are you all right?"

Erik nods.

They continue to the chapel, residual panic still coursing through his veins but his head is much clearer now.

Inside, Giry is talking to the priest. They both stop and look the new arrivals.

"Hello Erik." Giry smiles at him. "And you must be Nadir."

Erik gives a brief nod and Nadir extends his hand to Giry. All the terror has left Erik, leaving its place only an intense shyness.

"You must be the excellent Madame Giry - and I must thank you for delivering all of our letters these past years."

The two chat for a few moments and Erik lets his eyes travel over to the priest.

The man is young - possibly younger than Erik, even. He has a serene smile on his face, and said smile only widens as he makes eye contact with Erik.

Erik snaps his eyes to the blank wall, hoping dearly that he won't have to make small talk with the man. That smile seems sincere but he finds it disconcerting, all the same. Thankfully the man does not press the issue.

The trembling has left her fingers, so Christine assumes the worst is over. She takes long strides down the hallways, the click of her heels on the marble floor resounding off of the walls. She quickens her pace until Meg is practically jogging to keep up. She feels fine! She feels great! Everything is wonderf-

She stops in her tracks, doubling over and gagging. She's terribly thankful that she didn't have much of an appetite that morning or else this situation would be twice as mortifying.

"Christine!" worry creases Meg's face as she stoops by her side.

"Meg..." she wipes gently at her lips, her voice wavering. "Did I smudge my lipstick?"

Meg's worry gives way to a small smile.

"No, Christine - you still look beautiful."

"You're sure I don't look like I just retched up all the scant saliva my dry mouth could produce?" she raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, I'm sure Erik will still think you lovely no matter how much you retch."

"Meg!"

Their laughter echoes through the halls. She takes a more reasonable pace, and prays that there won't be a repeat performance of that little saga once she gets to the altar.

Their small talk - of which Erik was stubbornly absent - has faded away, and they all stand in their places in the chapel. All that's left to do is wait. Giry and Nadir are smiling, the priest is smiling and looking at Erik, and Erik is pointedly avoiding acknowledging his gaze. He wonders what, exactly, Christine had told the man about him.

Her steps slow to almost a halt as she approaches the door to the chapel. She's been here so, so many times before. But this time is different. She lets her eyes wander reverently over the etchings on the doorframe, savouring this moment, committing it to memory. Meg squeezes her hand. This is it. She pushes the door open.

All eyes move to the door at the sound of it opening.

Giry sheds a tear or two despite her best efforts.

Everything else fades into nothingness for Erik - there is nothing left but Christine. Not the sound of his own heart in his ears, not his uncertainty of what to do with his hands, not the unnerving grin on the priest's face - utterly nothing. She truly looks like an angel, there is simply no other way to describe her. Her white dress that hangs off of her shoulders just so, the gauzy veil attached to her pinned up hair, that soft look on her face as she fixes her eyes on him - he almost cannot stand it.

Christine is vaguely aware of the other people in the room, that there's a Persian man she's never met before standing next to Erik, that the priest is grinning at them all, that Giry is here and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, that Meg is still by her side as she walks down the isle. But she only has eyes for Erik - her Erik, standing there at the altar, waiting for her, his bright eyes trained on her and her alone - how could she have ever been nervous about this? Her heart flutters in her chest.

Time must have passed even though it didn't feel like it, because now they're both standing face to face and the priest is beginning.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God-"

It might not be such a terrible thing after all, Erik thinks, to be in the sight of the kind of God that could create Christine.

They each manage to say their vows without faltering or passing out or gagging, and they exchange the rings. It's like moving through a cloud, almost, Christine thinks. Everything feels so perfect she almost wonders if she's dreaming.

Then comes the prompt for the bride to be kissed.

Christine tilts her face up and Erik stoops down and pauses only for a second before complying. It's a soft and reverent touch - and just like that, they were husband and wife. Right here in very same place that they first met.

Erik had never imagined such an outcome could possibly happen when he had sought to comfort the crying child he found all those many years ago - he certainly hadn't intended it at the time. It was one of his few acts of kindness that hadn't backfired spectacularly, as was often the case, although he would have thought otherwise a handful of years ago.

Christine knew her life would be forever changed when she first heard the voice of the Angel of Music, but this was the very last way she would have guessed.

Still, though, this was where their paths had led them, and it wasn't always smooth or ideal, but they were here and nothing else mattered.

The priest is concluding the ceremony and Christine feels the tears in her eyes threatening to spill over. Erik lets one hand drift up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek and wiping away the tears there.

They hear the priest giving his congratulations as if from a great distance, and in the same haze they're dimly aware of shaking his hand.

The dreamlike fog begins to lift, however, by the time they're all sitting in Giry's office.

Nadir has brought a camera to capture some images of the happy day, promising that he shall develop the photographs himself and present the copies to them as a gift. He had already taken a few inside the chapel, and now he has them stand next to the cake and takes another. Christine wants one of them together on the couch which is surrounded by flowers, so Erik indulges her. He sits down to the left of her, wraps her in an embrace, and buries the masked side of his face in her hair before Nadir snaps the photo. Perhaps, Erik thinks, they can have at least one photograph in which he almost looks to be a normal man.

"It was a lovely wedding." Meg sighs as she sits on the other side of Erik. "I'm so happy for you two."

She glances over at the man next to her. It was a thrilling thought to be sitting there next to the elusive Phantom. She wasn't certain what, exactly, was behind his mask, but she still thought he was awfully handsome. She had always delighted to hear stories about him back when she was dancer at the Opera House, and the fact that she knew her own mother had some shadowy connection to him was quite a source of pride for her at those times. And now her best friend was actually married to him! Christine was so lucky, Meg found it all terribly romantic - imagine marrying such a figure right out of legends!

"I'm so glad you could be here, Meg." Christine beams at her before glancing over at Nadir. "And it's lovely to finally meet you, too, Nadir. How do you know Erik?"

Erik feels a chill settle across the room and he catches Nadir's eye. There's a small pause as Nadir glances between Erik and Christine. It was such an ordinary question, and asked so innocently. But nothing about Erik's past was ordinary or innocent.

Nadir gives a small smile.

"We met in Persia." he supplies.

"Oh- oh!" Christine is flustered when she realizes the implication, and regrets asking.

She wonders if perhaps he was - still is? - also an assassin, if that's how the two of them met.

"Nadir was the chief of police - the Daroga, under the shah in Persia at the time we met." Erik fills in.

Christine nods at this information. The room is still a little tense - she hadn't meant to dredge up the long buried past like that. Giry is silent as she looks at the floor - she doesn't like to be reminded of that chapter in Erik's life, either. Only Meg is unaware of the unspoken implications, unknowing of what Persia means to them all. She glances around at the faces in the room, at the way Christine has gone still in Erik's arms, at the nervous way he looks at his bride as she stares at the police chief who's giving her a smile tinged with sadness, at how her mother refuses to meet anyone's eye. Clearly, Persia must not a good subject here but she can't begin to fathom why. She takes another bite of cake and frowns, because the room seems to call for frowning but quite frankly all times call for cake.

"He's been a very good friend to me all these years. At least most of the time, that is." he raises an eyebrow and smirks. "The rest of the time he's insufferably annoying."

This earns a hearty laugh from Nadir. Christine follows suit with a giggle. The tension is broken and the conversation turns lighter.

As the afternoon marches on Christine marvels at how well this little group gets along. Even though Nadir only knew Erik, and Meg had only briefly met Erik once or twice before, it only took a short time before they were talking and laughing as though they known each other forever. Perhaps, she thought, it was the shared secret of Erik's existence that helped the camaraderie flow so easily.

Before the party is over, Nadir sets up a small contraption on his camera that allows him to manage to take a group photo with him in it as well.

"This has been a truly splendid day, thank you for inviting me, Erik. May your love be blessed and endless." he pulls Erik into a hug which the other man returns only somewhat awkwardly.

He gives a deep bow to Giry and her daughter, and turns to bow to Christine as well but before he can get the chance she throws her arms around him in a hug.

She doesn't know very much about what happened in Persia, or the circumstances of how they became friends, or what they write to each in those terribly long letters that she accidentally found in Erik's home one day, but she does know without a doubt that this man is clearly important to Erik and that without him her husband would have been truly alone for so long.

He takes his leave with the promise that he'll be by more often, a prospect they all look forward too, even Erik.

Giry is the next to receive a hug from Christine, and many thanks both for decorating the room and everything else - Christine knows that without her benevolent meddling things might have gone so differently for her.

She says her farewells to her friend last of all.

"This was the best wedding I've ever been invited to, Christine." she tells her. "I'll come to see you when I can get away again, but if that's not a for while then you simply must come up to the manor and see us! I've missed you so."

Meg glances up at Erik before darting her eyes back to Christine, a wickedly mirthful grin forming on her face.

"But of course, don't worry if you can't find the time to visit too soon - I'm sure you two are going are going to find much of your time is otherwise occupied for quite a long while!"

Christine swats her hand at her friend, her face turning red.

Erik pointedly looks away, trying very hard to pretend as though he hadn't heard those words.

He clears his throat and gives a small bow to Giry and her daughter.

"Thank you both for being here with us on this day." he says smoothly. "It was a honor to have you. Thank you, also, for your continued kindness to Christine... and to myself."

For one moment Erik realizes where Meg gets that wicked smirk from, and the next moment he realizes the Giry is fact hugging him. Christine has to stifle a giggle, doubly so when Meg suddenly follows her mother's suit. To hug an Opera Ghost is not something Meg would willingly pass up. He seems a little flustered by it all, but maintains his composure on the whole. What an odd day it's been, he thinks to himself.


	22. Chapter 22

After all their goodbyes to their friends have been made, Erik retreats through the secret door with Christine. Alone at last, she wraps her arms around his neck and, color tinting her cheeks, whispers in his ear.

"Take me to bed with you, Erik."

He swallows hard. He does not need to be asked twice.

He grabs her hand and practically runs with her towards his home. They manage to keep the jogging pace up for most of the way, but when they draw closer he insists on carrying her over the threshold. She remains in his arms, giggling, as he carries her towards his bedroom, pushing the door open with his hip.

Once inside, he stops.

He had forgotten.

Her laughter stops, and all the color drains from her face.

He slowly lets her feet touch the floor as she slides from his arms, and she stands there staring for nearly a whole minute before she turns to him again and bursts into a fit of tears.

In all the rush surrounding their wedding, it has managed to somehow slip the minds of both of them that Erik's bed was less a bed and more of a coffin.

Perhaps he had managed to forget because he honestly did not think it would get this far - she loved him, yes, she had married him, yes, she had certainly never shied away from kisses or touches during their engagement - but he had not taken any of those things as a guarantee that there would be something more. She had already promised to be by his side for the rest of his life, he didn't dare ask for anything more. If she had never brought the subject up, never made to join him in the evening, he certainly never would have pushed the subject. But they had not even been thirty seconds into being alone as husband and wife before she had asked... And now...

He pets her hair and pats her shoulders and tries to reassure her as he slowly walks backwards and leads her out of the room.

"Oh, Christine, it'll be okay, we'll buy a new bed, a bigger bed, a big soft one and you'll love it, it'll be alright. Everything is okay."

Everything is not okay. He shuts the door behind him, hoping to block the offending room from sight because Christine is still crying her eyes out. Her carefully applied makeup is running down her face and he inwardly cringes that he has caused this. He had slept in that box for so long that it was normal to him - he had forgotten how upset the idea had made Christine the last time she had caught a glimpse of it.

For her part, the very last thing she wanted on her wedding day - her wedding night! - was a reminder that her undetermined-number-of-years-older-than-her husband was going to die one day. She hated that morbid ersatz bed of his, and couldn't believe she had managed to forget about such a thing. She knows she should stop crying, knows how terribly uncomfortable seeing anyone cry makes Erik, but she simply cannot help it. She can't even stop crying long enough to explain to him what is wrong, and that makes her cry all the harder. Her makeup is surely ruined by now, and from a faraway place she's viewing herself with a mortifying embarrassment that she's let herself get in such a state - Erik is fine, for Heaven's sake! - yet still she can't pull herself away from the spiral of sorrow she's found herself falling into.

Erik is peeved at himself for letting something happen to shake his wife so. He also find himself peeved - perhaps oddly so - at the realization that two people would not even fit in the coffin anyway. He sighs as he takes her to the couch, hoping to comfort her into ceasing her sobs, and mentally plans to send for an actual bed frame and mattress the very next day.

He sits next to her, arms around her shoulders and begins to hum a song. She stops sobbing, thankfully, but she is still crying, her tears showing no signs of stopping even if she has quieted. Guilt presses down on him the longer it goes on - he's hurt her, just as he feared that he would. Why did he dare to imagine that there could possibly be any outcome to this night that did not end with her in an inconsolable puddle of tears? It was a mistake to think otherwise, a mistake to bring her here, a mistake to think she could ever be happy with one such as him. He cannot even be a normal man for her in this one way. Already the wedding was pitiful because of him - Christine deserved a grand affair with half of Paris in attendance, at the very least to be able to invite more than one friend! But that had been ruined because of him, and now she couldn't even have a normal wedding night because he was a monster that had to sleep in a coffin instead of a bed.

Much more of this and he will start crying too. So he pulls away from her and stands up, intending on taking her back upstairs because he can't bear her tears or his own thoughts. But she tugs on his sleeve before he can say anything, trying to keep him from leaving.

She looks up at him with watery eyes and gives him a wobbly smile.

"Will you read to me?"

Dumbfounded, he nods and asks what book she'd like to hear. She points out one of her favorites, and when he sits down again beside her she gently coaxes him into reclining against the arm of the couch so that she can lay across him with her head on his chest.

She's lulled into peacefulness by his voice and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She can't help but think of the times she's come so close to losing him - when Raoul was fighting him in the graveyard, when he disappeared after she told him she loved him, and then those long months when she was in the countryside not knowing his fate. Months of waking up in the middle of the night being unable to breathe, waking up screaming from the images of possible aftermaths in her nightmares, long days of trying push down the little voice in her head that said all these things were true.

She sighs. She never wants to leave here, never wants him to stop tracing gentle circles on her back with his fingers, never wants this book to end so that they can both simply lay here for eternity, safe and together at last.

She knows he will continue to read for the rest of the night if she lets him, but when he pauses to turn the page she knows she must speak up.

"I'm sorry I spoiled our night, Erik."

"The fault rests entirely on me, I'm afraid."

She shakes her head.

"It's neither of our faults, then. It's just that seeing your cof- seeing where you sleep reminded me..." she pauses.

Reminded you that I am a monster, his mind supplies. But her next words catch him by surprise.

"It reminded me that I could lose you." her voice is barely audible by the end, as though she fears to even speak the words, fears to make the thought real by giving it form.

She pauses again for a moment before carrying on in a stronger tone.

"And I don't want to think of that. I don't want there to ever be a day that I'm not with you. I love you."

For once Erik does not feel any doubt at her words - the emotion there is too raw, too real to deny. He lets himself fully believe her. He knows that in future moments he will still struggle with believing how or why she cares for him, but in this moment he simply wants to cherish the feeling of receiving her love without the voices in his head telling him otherwise.

"I love you too, Christine."

Any other time he would have inwardly flinched at the waver in his voice, but not tonight.

After a few moments in silence, he begins to read again. He continues to read until he realizes she fallen asleep. He sets the book on the floor and pulls a blanket over them. He doesn't have the heart to wake her, and besides - he is now unwilling to send her back upstairs, not wanting to be alone.

When they awake it's late in the morning she realizes she's late for work, but even in her rush to go upstairs and change she does not neglect to give him a lingering kiss and the promise that she'll be back as soon as work is over.

As soon as she sets foot outside their door, he sets to work of his own.

He's there to meet her when she slips into the secret door after her long shift is done. She holds out her hand to his and he takes it, and they walk home in this fashion, her telling him all about the latest incompetence on the part of the managers and how her day went.

It's when they finally arrive into his foyer that she can see him properly and realizes he's positively thrumming with nerves.

"I have a surprise for you, my dear."

And he leads her to a room that's tucked away on the other side of the kitchen, a room she can't remember what exactly it used to hold, but recalls that it was a sort of storage space for odds and ends he wasn't using at the moment. He motions for her to open the door.

But now - now the room has been utterly transformed, and she gasps.

There's a small bookshelf and a little table, and a chest of drawers and a wardrobe just waiting for her to fill with her clothes. There's a candelabra on the wall, candles lit and casting everything in a warm glow, and a dozen roses resting in a vase on a vanity.

But her favorite part - her very favorite part - is the bed. She's never seen a round mattress before, but here it is in all it's glory, wrapped in red and black silk sheets and piled high with pillows and a billowy blanket.

"Oh, Erik!" she cries.

"Do you like it?" he asks nervously.

She nods enthusiastically, unable to find words.

He gestures to the room with a flourish.

"You deserve a more, ah, conventional sleeping arrangement, so I made certain that you would have only the finest of beds. It is yours, my gift to you."

"My bed?" she breathes.

"Yes."

She turns to him, her face shining with absolute joy - and just a glimmer of wickedness in her eyes.

"Oh Erik -" she's grabbing him by the arms and tugging him with her towards the ever inviting mattress. "I think you mean -our- bed."

And before he realizes it he's falling underneath of her onto the bed and being kissed divinely and throughly divested of his clothing.

He's hit with a wave of shyness as she unbuttons his vest and pushes it off, realizing he's never been so undressed around a woman before. But now there are other, more distracting emotions, and the shyness fades away - mostly.

There are a few awkward moments throughout the night, but Christine remains undaunted and Erik is nothing if not a quick learner, and when all is said and done they'd both agree that the night was an overwhelmingly perfect triumph.

He awakes in the morning slightly disoriented. He feels unusually warm and he's quite sure he's not in his own bedroom - whatever he's laying on is far too soft to be his coffin, for one. He blinks a few times and realizes that the warmth is his wife's body wrapped around his, and suddenly the memories of the previous day - and night - come rushing back.

His head is swimming with the impossibility of it all - of having Christine here with him like this. It's too much, all too much. He closes his eyes once more, almost certain that when he opens them again he will be alone in his coffin, the natural order of the world.

But then Christine shifts and stretches and gives a small noise as she wakes, something between squeak and a moan, and she's really here and this really happened - and he rolls over and buries his face in the crook of her neck as his hand goes goes around her waist-

"Erik loves his Christine." he whispers to her.


	23. Chapter 23

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Work Header Rating: Mature Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: F/M Fandoms: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber Phantom - Susan Kay Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux Relationship: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera Characters: Christine Daaé Erik | Phantom of the Opera Madame Giry Nadir Khan Meg Giry Additional Tags: Angst medical inaccuracy because if it takes me more than two minutes to research it you can forget it tbh just a lot of crying Fluff Fluff and Angst Hurt/Comfort title from a Yeats poem couldn't pick a canon for this to be set in so I stole pieces I liked from each book / movie Language: English Stats: Published: 2018-09-15 Completed: 2019-11-25 Words: 70907 Chapters: 35/35 Comments: 88 Kudos: 165 Bookmarks: 25 Hits: 2194

The World's More Full of Weeping Than You Can Understand Mertens

Chapter 23

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Erik was right when he had said he was not easy to live with.

He had apparently gathered a number of habits that were well suited to a person who was constantly alone, and adding another person into that mix was... Interesting.

Living underground, especially, seemed to lend itself to a certain lack of regard for the time due to the absence of natural light.

It's not even a full week of sharing a bedroom when it happens - she feels him wake during the night and her half sleeping mind registers the fact and doesn't think much else of it.

He, however, is faced with quite the dilemma.

It's not that he wants to leave the comfort of this bed and the woman sharing it, no it's not that at all - he could stay here forever, he feels.

But he's just awoken from a dream - such a beautiful dream! - and he now he has a piece of music in his mind that he simply must write down. This was a common occurrence for him, and it never had posed any kind issue before - he'd just get up and write until he was finished then simply go back to bed, regardless of the hour.

But now there was Christine to think about. Namely, about how terrible it would be to leave her side while he was writing. Who knows how long it would take for him to write this - why, she might even have already left for work by the time he got back! That was unacceptable. But this music must be written...

So he devises a compromise. He regretfully leaves the bed for a few short minutes - just long enough to grab the inkwell, quill, paper, and a large book to write against. He takes them back to the bedroom, and hesitates before setting the inkwell on the side table near the bed. The little table happens to be Christine's side, but he certainly cannot have the ink spilling all over the sheets - he would have nothing to write with, in that case.

The candle that Christine insists on keeping lit during the night gives off just enough light for him to see the staves with a little effort.

He settles back into the warmth of the bed, Christine shifting slightly despite his best efforts not to wake her.

He takes the quill and attempts to dip it into the inkwell - a task for which it is necessary to reach over his wife and lean towards the table. She doesn't seem to notice. Success!

He begins to furiously scribble the notes out onto the lined paper, biting his lip. He can't wait to play this for Christine.

Naturally, the quill runs out of ink, so he repeats the action of leaning and reaching and dipping it in the inkwell.

He continues writing. It runs dry. He reaches.

Her mostly sleeping mind was aware that he had left and come back, but there was nothing so terribly unusual about that. It was the odd motion of him leaning over her that her sleep addled brain had trouble comprehending. Was he reaching for her? But she felt no touch at all. An odd anomaly, nothing more.

But he does it again. And again. She opens her eyes. He's sitting up and appears to be writing something. And now, it happens again. He reaches over her for something that she can only assume is on the little table. His torso comes within scant millimetres of brushing against her nose, and even in the midst of her annoyance she must admit she's rather impressed at the amount of talent it must take to be able to get so close without actually touching. As he pulls back to sitting, she sees that he's holding a quill. So he's writing, then. But still-

"Erik." she says in an even tone. "What are you doing."

"Nothing, my love. Go back to sleep."

She leans up on her elbow, watching him as he's absorbed in his work.

"Do you often do nothing in the middle of the night?"

"Perhaps, I suppose." his answer is absentminded, as though he were only half listening to her.

But then he snaps his head over to look at her, as if realizing for the first time that he's disturbed her sleep.

"Ah, Christine, forgive me. I did not mean to wake you. Please, go back to sleep. It will not happen again, I promise."

She sighs and rolls to face away from him, closing her eyes once more. She's just drifting off again when she feels the ever so slight dip of the mattress, and sure enough when she opens her eyes there's an arm above her. She turns to face towards him again, and not only his face but his entire body takes on an expression of guilt - but he keeps writing nonetheless.

"Why don't you trade sides with me, Erik? Then you won't have to reach."

He shakes his head.

"That is your side of the bed - you have always slept there and I know that you prefer it."

She rolls on to her back, staring up at the ceiling in the near darkness.

"They make pens that hold a fair deal of ink inside of them, you know." she says after two more reaches. "I could buy you one the next time I'm at the store, then you wouldn't have to worry about the inkwell anymore."

"I would much prefer if you did not, my dear."

She considers his possible aversions to such a thing.

"They make them with red ink." she offers.

He pauses, not sure how to explain.

"It is not merely about the color of the ink. A fountain pen would- well, I'm afraid a fountain pen would quite ruin the aesthetic of the whole thing." he gestures widely to the staves. "It's simply out of the question."

She huffs and shakes her head, finding it equal parts frustrating and endearing. That damn feather quill pen, with all its outdatedness and toil, here to bother both of their lives for the foreseeable future because of Erik's dedication to the aesthetic.

"Perhaps we can get you a table for your side, too, then."

He nods and she's not certain that he's heard her, but the quill once again requiring ink reminds her that this solution is of no use to them at the moment regardless.

She bites back her next suggestion when she realizes how it would sound out loud - after all, there's surely a reason that he's here in the bed with her and not at his organ where he normally composes. To mention asking the possibility of if he could take his writing to a different room please? - he would surely take that as her casting him out, and she already had had enough trouble getting him to feel comfortable with sharing her room. So she tries her best to ignore what's happening.

Her poor, dear husband. She loves him so, but she also loves being well rested.

Finally it becomes too much.

"Erik Francis Daae, switch sides with me this instant." she slams her hands down on the blankets.

He's startled out of his work and looks at her, narrowing his eyes.

"Where the devil did you get the name Francis from?" he asks suspiciously.

He's never used that name in any of his many aliases and is utterly confused.

"I don't know." she replies. "It's surely the sleep deprivation. I just came up with it."

He's still confused but he complies with her demand, getting out and then getting back in, now taking up the space Christine had been occupying. Surely this will fix it, she feels, as her eyes slide closed once more.

Except-

Except now that there's no distractions from his movements, she can hear the scritch scritch scritch of the quill against the paper and the tap tap tap of the quill against the inkwell, and that's when she realizes that when one is married to a genius, one must learn to cope with the eccentricities that come along with that, such as composing at three in the morning.

She knows that she is not perfect, of course - she'd be the first to admit to that. Her hypothetical situation of leaving dirty laundry around the room may have been less of a hypothetical per say and more of a constant in actual fact. It's understandable that such a thing is off-putting to him, and she does attempt to do better in that regard. There are myriad little actions she herself performs that she knows can be annoying as well - some she's aware of and some she is not. She taps her foot as she washes the dishes, and Erik has never brought it up to her but it never ceases to make him nervous because the movement reminds him of his mother. They agree that honesty with each other is typically the best policy, however, so for almost any other habit he gently explains why it bothers him, and she typically stops or lessens whatever it is, and she feels comfortable doing the same to him - and it nearly always works out quite well. But she's sometimes surprised at what, exactly will be the thing that sets him off, because often times it's nothing she would have imagined to be a problem, and on some occasions an innocuous action or noise will occur at a most inopportune moment when one of them is irritable and the other is feeling sensitive.

She was merely sitting in the reading room preparing to drink a cup of tea like she has nearly every day of her life when it happens.

Erik is sitting across the room, reading intently. It's some stuffy old tome that Christine can't make head or tail if despite having peeked at it's contents before, so he's reading it silently. He had offered, quite generously, to read it aloud if she so desired, but she had not taken him up on the offer. Still, it's nice to be in the same room, she thinks, so she had decided to drink her tea in here.

She's simply stirring the sugar in, as she always does, when she notices his eyes are no longer on the page and instead on her. She smiles sweetly at him, but this garners no response. No matter. She continues stirring, waiting for all the sugar to dissolve.

"Christine." he says presently. "Surely the sugar is sufficiently mixed by now."

She stills.

"Well... The first spoonful is, yes."

Erik knows perfectly well that she takes far more than spoonful and his jaw clenches.

"Would you like me to stir it for you?" he offers, and she isn't certain what he's getting at.

"No, thank you though."

"Are you very certain, Christine?" his voice is tight.

"I know how to stir tea, Erik." she continues to do just that.

"You are certainly stirring it, yes. But have you tried stirring it so that the spoon does not touch the sides of the cup, perhaps?"

She frowns.

"I've always stirred my tea this way, and we've had tea together nearly every few days for the past years. You've never said anything about it before."

"There have always been other sounds to distract, quite often talking. It is different now, here in the silence."

He feels rather rude to bring it up, but that awful clinking noise is so hateful to his ears, he can't bear it.

Christine tries her best to comply with his wishes. In truth, she had barely ever noticed that she stirred in such a manner - and really, who would? The drink got stirred - was that not the point of the action? So what if the spoon clinked against the side of the cup in the process? This new way takes focus, more effort, but she can tell it bothers him even if she doesn't fully understand so she tries her best.

Her mind wanders after the fourth spoon of sugar, and her fingers slip.

Clink.

He pins her with his stern gaze.

"Well it was not on purpose." she huffs.

He sets the book down and closes his eyes, trying to calm himself. His voice is only slightly raised when he replies.

"This would not have happened if you simply let me stir it for you."

The words were said almost calmly, just a bit on the loud side, and really - he had had a very trying day that had cumulated in quite a headache that was only just now waning, but that wretched clinking was threatening to bring it back on at full force.

For Christine, however, the day had also been very trying - a fact he was not aware of, just as she was unaware of his headache. She had dropped a large stack of papers to be filed and they had become hopelessly mixed up, a fact that had not pleased the lead accountant and had led to her being called a bit of name. It stung of course, and she spent the rest of the day thinking about it - to the point that she had mixed up a ticket order, knocked over a pitcher of juice on the carpet, and tripped over her own feet in front of some customers and rather embarrassed herself. The rest of the day she had felt quite sorry for herself, and in the midst of her moping her mind turned to some very dramatic thoughts.

The accountant was right, she had thought sadly, she can't seem to do anything right. And as she often did in times of sadness, she thought of her husband - a topic that usually cheered her very well. But today - today her thoughts had drifted to how capable he was, such a quick learner with hardly any topic or skill he was not knowledgeable about and adept in. He would never have had these kind of silly problems she was having - mixing up a simple order, for goodness sake! What was wrong with her? So different than Erik... It was a wonder how he tolerated her bumbling ineptitude. Surely it irritated him at times, she thought. How could it not? Not when he was so skilled and she so... Simple. She had stopped her work every so often to brush away a tear of pity for her own plight. She was only ever good at singing but now that that's gone-

And now- now, she could not even stir a cup of tea correctly. Is she so much of an oaf that she must have someone handle a spoon for her because she'll mess it up otherwise? Apparently so.

Erik exhales after his words and opens his eyes once more just in time to see her face crumple.

She sets the cup on the table in front of her and rises, smoothing down her skirt with shaking hands. She attempts to quickly exit the room before the tears start up again, and she realizes they're coming sooner and more numerous than she had thought and she leaves as fast as she can.

Panic shoots through Erik. He hadn't intended this - hadn't intended this at all! He sits for a moment, stricken. It's finally happened - he finally drove her off in a fit of tears. And all over a blasted tea cup!

He jumps out of the chair and races after her. He had said he'd let her leave if she ever wished it, but he hadn't intended it all to end like this - please, not like this.

She's standing in their bedroom with her hands pressed against her face, trying to stifle her pitiful weeping. She vaguely hears Erik as he hesitates in the doorway before striding across the floor - expertly avoiding the clothing strewn about there - and approaches her from behind.

He wraps his arms around her and rests his forehead on her shoulder.

"I am sorry, Christine. Please forgive me. You can stir your tea however you want."

A trembling plea for her not to leave him is on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back.

"Oh, Erik." she sighs as she scrubs at her face. "It's not just about the tea cup."

His heart twists, because surely she's about to recount his numerous sins against her-

"It was the lead accountant."

He pauses as he digests this new information, his arms tightening around her just slightly as his mood shifts from penitent to possessive.

"What did he do?"

His voice holds a faint undercurrent of darkness, and for a brief moment Christine is once again glad not only of his more stable temperament of late but his long ago vow to not kill anymore - because at the tone of his voice she suddenly has an image in her mind of the accountant meeting the wrong side of a Punjab Lasso. It's so terribly wicked of her - a sin, surely - but her lips twitch into a small smile at the image before she can burry the awful thought. It was not that she wished any harm on anyone, of course not - but it was just slightly flattering, was it not? The thought that Erik would fight anyone that offended or harmed her?

"I was carrying a rather large amount of files that had taken ages to sort, and I- I dropped them everywhere, and he was very cross with me over it. And I felt so clumsy for the rest of the day, like I'm not very skilled at anything, and then the tea cup-" she cuts off to sniff.

"I'm not a very skilled person in general, I suppose." she sighs.

Erik hums.

"You know that is not true, my dear. You're just having a bad day. Anyone could have dropped those papers. Do you think that insolant account boy could write an opera, as you have done?"

She nods, thinking about his words as she leans back against his chest.

"Besides," he murmurs. "I daresay you are quite skilled at putting up with me."

A grin creeps across her face.

"You are quite right in that regard, my love."

Yes, they both find the transition of living with another person to be an adjustment, and there are small arguments peppered here and there, and concessions must be made every now and then. Neither one one would say that the other is particularly easy to live with - but both of them would not have it any other way. Any moments of discord are far outnumbered by moments of sweetness, moments of love.

She'll gladly put up with every pointed look at her discarded petticoats lying in a corner in their room if it means she gets evenings of coming home after a long day to a meal that's been beautifully prepared just for her, she'd take endless disagreements about the lemon to sugar ratio in tea if it also meant she could also have an endless amount of mornings where she awoke with his arms around her, she'd endure every one of his odd quirks and then some as long she could continue to play and compose music with him.

He didn't care so terribly that she was somewhat absentminded when it came to laundry or dishes or various items lying about - not when she hung on his every word and kindly remembered the things he had told her, whether it be something small like mentioning a favorite whiskey (of which she later bought for him as a gift) or something more important like how she did her best to overcome her fear of spiders so she could simply put them out of the room instead of killing them after he had told her about how he felt a sort of kinship with the creatures. She could crack her knuckles and pop every joint in her body with that horrible noise constantly (although at times it seems she certainly does) as long they could continue to share those soft touches and sensuous caresses each night. He would endure her tapping her fingers with no discernibly consistent beat against every hard surface of their home for a thousand years just to be able to keep seeing that look on her face when she'd glance over at him in random moments and smile, her eyes full of love.

No, they would not have it any other way.


	24. Chapter 24

Madame Giry remarks one day that Christine looks pale.

Christine thinks on this and realizes it's the lack of sunlight. She goes outside, yes, to market and shop. But without the walk here and back between work and her former apartment, she's not in the sun half as much as she used to be. Before she would enjoy walks by the river, but now it's far too tempting to stay by Erik's side, and as he never seems to leave the Opera House...

She's telling Erik about Giry's observation over dinner. He looks down, abashed, and suddenly she realizes he's taken the comment as a criticism.

"It is not a bad thing, love. I do not mind being pale if it means being near you. Hopefully you do not mind my new complexion, either."

She adds the last sentence in jest, but he replies immediately and in a serious tone.

"You are beautiful no matter what you look like, Christine."

He pushes at the food on his plate with his fork, no longer interested in eating.

"I only wish we could both go outside without any... Negative attention." he sighs. "It would be so lovely to walk down the street at midday with you beside me."

He changes the subject to something else, but Christine is still thinking of his wish to go for a walk even after dinner is finished and they're in their bed.

Their bed - Christine was so pleased that Erik had finally accepted her view that the room - and the bed - should belong to both of them. He had been quite insistent to the opposite at first.

"You need a place that is entirely your own, Christine. This room was supposed to serve that purpose." he had told her.

"But I wish to share my bedroom with my husband. Surely that's not so strange?"

"Christine, you do not understand." he tried to be firm with her, but it was difficult when every last cell in his body simply wanted to give her whatever she desired. "If you do not have a space that belongs only to you, somewhere that I can only enter with your permission, then you will be forced to be around me constantly. Where will you go if you wish to be alone for a while? You will grow sick of seeing me."

"Oh, Erik. If I wished to be away from you, I'd simply go upstairs to my room there." she had nodded in a no-nonsense way, hoping the matter was settled.

He had grown very still and had watched her for a few moments, and measured the meaning behind her words.

"So," he had finally said in an even tone. "You have already thought about this scenario."

She had almost been tempted to laugh at that, because surely only Erik would be able to take the concept of her wanting to sleep in the same bedroom with him and twist it around in his mind to mean that she wanted away from him. But it was certainly not a laughing to him - he was probably making himself miserable over it- so she had merely smiled instead.

"I only thought of it just now, darling, because you have brought the subject up. But my point remains - we are married, and I wish to share my room with my husband."

She had refused to relent so finally he had acquiesced, and has been coming to bed with her every night. Tentatively at first, as though he were bracing himself to be turned out at any minute, but he grew less hesitant each night.

She snuggles down underneath the blanket, smiling at how he had automatically wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him when he had lain down next to her. She can hear his even breathing now, already asleep and yet still his arms are holding her tightly, his body pressed to her back, his face buried in her hair. It is often cold this far under the ground, but right now she's warm and comfortable. The only thing keeping her from drifting off to sleep in her beloved's arms is the memory of how wistful he looked when talking about the walk at dinner.

She wants so badly for them to be able to go outside together in the daylight - she knows how happy it would make him, and all she wants is for him to be happy.

So she turns the problem over in her mind as though it were a puzzle she could solve if she just looked at it from a different angle.

She's aware from his comments that he often receives stares and questions when people see his mask, and that he hates the attention that the mask draws. Going without the mask is, of course, not an option - she does not mind his face, but even still he so rarely removes it in her presence except for when he sleeps. If only... If only he had a mask that could make him look like everyone else...

Sleep slowly creeps across her, her thoughts carrying over into dreams.

When she awakes the next morning - but she can never be certain when it is morning down here - she has an idea.

She carefully turns around to face him, not wanting to break his embrace, and places a hand on his shoulder to gently shake him awake.

"Erik," she calls softly, and waits for him to blink a few times before continuing. "I thought of something last night. What if you had a mask that covered your entire face - just for going on walks outside, I mean!"

She desperately prays that he does not misconstrue her words to mean she no longer wishes to see any of his face at all.

"Perhaps such a mask would draw less attention?"

In the light of the last candle flickering she can just barely make out his sad smile.

"My Christine is far too sweet to me, worrying over such matters when she should be sleeping. But unfortunately, my love, I had thought of this idea a number of years ago. It was... Less than successful."

She asks to see it, and sure enough after breakfast he goes to search for it in his room. She lingers in the living room by the fireplace, too afraid to follow him lest she find he's still kept that blasted coffin. He emerges several minutes later wearing the mask.

She must admit - the affect is... Unnerving. It's formed well enough, yes, but the utter stillness of the thing is haunting. At first glance it's fine enough, but any lingering look at it will alert its viewer that something is wrong.

"You can see why it did not work." he states from behind it.

She suppresses a cringe at hearing a voice come from the unmoving mouth.

He sighs and turns to take it off, replacing it with usual one.

"Perhaps it would not be so terribly noticeable with your hat and cape pulled around it - it is still cold out, you know."

She cajoles him into putting both his cape with the high collar and his long brimmed fedora on. She pops the collar and tips the hat at an almost precarious angle before stepping back to look at him.

"I think it looks fine." she offers.

He stands there mutely, unsure of what he looks like and thus unsure of how to reply, for he has no mirror in which he can prove her wrong.

She stands on her toes and pushes the hat backwards, leaning up to kiss the side of his face.

"Stay right here, love, I'm going to go get my coat and then we are going outside."

He wants to protest but she's gone in a flash. So he nervously tips the hat back into place and goes to look for his gloves.

She returns soon, beaming at him as she extends her hand to lead him away from their home and into the tunnels that will eventually lead outside.

"Christine, are you sure?" he whispers. "Please do not lead us into any untoward notice and undue attention in some misguided attempt to make either of us feel better about this situation."

She looks back at him, frowning. Surely that's not what she's doing, is it?

She stops and evaluates his appearance.

"Your mask is still visible, yes." she tells him softly. "But if you keep your head down it's unlikely anyone will notice, especially if we walk briskly. However... We do not have to go outside. You do not have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Erik."

She bites her lip, waiting for him to reply. She knows that he would do nearly anything she asked of him, and she's hopes that this is not a situation where she has taken advantage of that.

He sighs, squeezing her hand.

"We do not have to be outside for very long." he says slowly. "Once outside we would not have to go more than quarter of the way around the building before finding the next secret entrance. Ten minutes, at most."

So they venture out, her hands resting on his arm, walking side by side in the sun just like he's dreamed about.

He feels vaguely dizzy, but he's unsure if the cause is the blinding sunlight - has it always been this searingly bright? - or if it's from this long desired moment finally manifesting. He wonders between the same set of options again as he blinks against the tears gathering in his eyes.

The chatter and hum of the street is nearly overwhelming, assaulting the senses. The creak and clatter of the horses and carriages in the street, the running and shouting and laughing of people as they made their way about. So much movement everywhere. To Christine the scene is not so different than an average day outside, but Erik has not been out in the daylight hours since who knows when, and he finds it very busy.

He slows down as they approach the next hidden entrance to the catacombs on the side of the Opera House, glancing at Christine. She looks up at him and gives a small nod and a smile, trusting his judgment.

No one has bothered to give a second glance to them so far, and it has been so terribly long since he last felt daylight in the open air. Almost reluctantly, he walks on past the entrance, and Christine leans her head on his shoulder as they continue their fine walk. Instead of lurking around the side of the building, they begin to head out to the main road to walk past the shops.

He glances down at her again, admiring how the crisp breeze has given her cheeks and nose a rosy tint, how a smile plays at her lips. Her fingers are trembling on his arm for their lack of gloves, her diamond ring glinting in the sunlight and sending tiny fractures of rainbow onto his overcoat. He feels the most likely scenario is that in her haste she forgot to put her gloves on, but a small secret part of him hopes that she purposely left them behind so that she could show off her ring. He places his other hand over both of hers, hoping to rub some warmth into them.

They pass storefronts with various things for sale in the window, and he has the absurd idea of what it would be like to actually go in one these stores and shop for himself - he cannot remember when he last shopped in a store during business hours instead of having someone shop for him in his stead... Or simply picked the lock of a store in the middle of the night when he wanted something. They pass street vendors as well, and from the corner of his eye he sees things he wishes to stop for - some apples, fresh fish, an interesting hat, some irises that he knows Christine would love - but he dares not stop because he knows that once he does there will be conversation with the vendor, and that is not something he feels they can risk. Even still, he looks at the wares as much as he can and makes mental notes of what to ask Christine to buy the next time she goes shopping, and this is nearly as good as shopping himself.

For these brief moments away from the Opera Populaire, he's giddy with joy. Here he is, walking down the street with his wife on his arm. They are like any other couple. He dares to look up at the sky, that dazzling blue spotted with cotton clouds, takes a deep breath and watches the birds flittering about the rustling leaves of the trees. It's all so gloriously normal.

And just like that, the illusion shatters.

A man has done a double take, now openly gawking at Erik. The man taps his friend on the shoulder, who turns and stares up and down at him. Erik feels himself chill under their gazes, his heart stopping. He ducks his head once again and his grip on Christine's hands tighten and he pulls her along at a faster pace now.

"Erik..?"

"We've been seen." he breathes tersely.

He silently and bitterly laughs at himself for ever thinking they could come close to some semblance of normalcy. He is, after all, still a wanted man - and the blasted mask made him all the more noticeable. Jospeh Buquet, that bumbling old idiot - it wasn't his fault the man was fool enough to try to attempt and find the Opera Ghost's hiding place and thus fell into a trap, Erik fumes to himself.

Christine clings to him, her breath coming in pants but she shows no sign of tiring yet.

"Are they behind us?" his voice is sharper than he intends.

If any harm should ever come to her because of his own carelessness, he will never forgive himself.

She glances behind, eyes large and full of fear.

"No - no they aren't there." she tells him breathlessly.

He does not slow their pace, however.

An alley comes up on their left, and suddenly he's pivoting and pushing her into the shadows. With one swift movement he's pulled her close to him and swept his cape entirely over her, hiding her bright blue coat and matching hat from view.

He knows that he can slip away easily, melt into the shadows and lose anyone tailing him. Christine being there... Complicates things.  
But she must be his first priority, he cannot let her be seen - she cannot be viewed by anyone with suspicion lest she lose her own freedom through association with him.

She can hear her own pulse in her ears. The tremble that was only in her fingers is now in her legs as well. The spinning and sudden darkness of being under his cape was disorienting, but his arm tightly around her helped her keep her balance. She lets her arms creep around his waist, regret clawing her heart. She hasn't meant to put him - to put them both - in danger. She had only wanted to talk a walk. Was life so cruel that it must deny them this also? Could they not simply take a short stroll in the sunlight without her husband being arrested?

They stand there for what seems to be an eternity, her with her face pressed to his chest and praying that they weren't on the verge of being ambushed, and he watching the mill of pedestrians going down the sidewalk for the two men who might be attempting to follow.

Finally, finally, he loosens his almost bruising grip and lets the cape fall away.

"We are safe." he whispers to her, but then thinks that maybe that sounds too assured so he adds ominously- "For now."

She looks up at him and gives a smile that's wobbly with nerves.

"My walks have been so dull boring until now."

"Are you alright? Did I hurt you?" he notices her rubbing her hands and remembers how hard he had squeezed them.

"I'm alright, Erik. I was just startled is all."

"We should go back to the Opera House. I am sorry, Christine."

"Whatever are you sorry for?"

"I am sorry we could not even do this simple outing without running into trouble."

She thinks about this for a moment before replying.

"I do not think that we ran into trouble." she says slowly. "I think that we ran into two men with bad manners and that you only wanted to take extra precautions just in case. But other than that it has been wholly enjoyable, has it not?"

He raises a brow at this.

"Yes, other than the strangers stopping to stare at the freak and the part where we had to hide out of fear for our lives, it was a very lovely day, Christine."

But despite his sarcasm, he casually mentions over their lunch later that day that perhaps they might attempt another outing in the future, and she is overjoyed at this.


	25. Chapter 25

It's the dreams of Persia again. He wakes with a terrible start, heart pounding and gasping for breath. He's not sure where he is at first, a strangled sound escaping from his throat. He tries to kick off the blanket in an attempt to flee but merely becomes more tangled in it.

"Erik? Love, what's wrong?" a woman's voice cuts through the suffocating silence.

Then he remembers where - and when - he is and he's hit with another wave of emotion.

He had never wanted her to see him like this, had hoped that her presence with him in bed had finally soothed the terrible dreams once and for all, but it appears to not be the case. He's still shaking and can't bring himself to speak yet.

"It's okay, Erik, you're safe now."

He can hear the concern in her voice. She has the vague idea of what his years in Persia were like, how he spent his time there, but has never heard any details and she never will if he can help it.

"It was just a dream, darling."

She tentatively reaches out to him, a soft touch on his shoulder, not wanting to frighten him any further. He leans into it, desperate for anything to help dispel the remnants of his nightmare.

"Come here, love."

He lets her pull him to herself, his head coming to rest on her bosom where he could listen to the high flutter of her heart. She was frightened too, then - it certainly must be startling to be woken in such a manner. But one would not think it from her soothing voice. She smooths out the blanket.

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

His hands gripped her upper arms, trying to remind himself that this right now was real and there was no danger here. She strokes his hair and runs her hand over his back.

"You'll be alright."

She's doing remarkably well, considering, he thinks to himself. He had never told her that he has these problems, but she seems to know just what to do. His heart rate is slowly returning to normal, the adrenaline beginning to fade from his system.

In all of her words of reassurance and comfort, she does not once ask what it was in his dream that caused such a reaction, and for this he could not be more thankful.

She pushes a stray piece of hair behind his ear and does her best to hum a song as well as she can. She's never seen him have a nightmare before, but something about it makes her believe that it is far from the first and will certainly not be the last. She wonders what he's done in previous times like this and there was no one around to soothe him, to hold him. It makes her sad to think of all the nights he must have awoken alone to sit by himself like this.

He finds his voice again - hoarse and whispered, but it is there.

"I love you, Christine."

"I love you too, dear. Are you alright?"

He doesn't know how to answer that, so he doesn't. Instead he moves his hands from her arms and wraps them around her waist so the he can sit closer to her. He's still trembling, so she continues to stroke and pet him as though he were a cat in her lap.

"Would you like a glass of water?" she offers.

"No." he whispers.

In truth, his mouth is quite dry. But he doesn't want her to leave, not even for the brief moments it would take to go to the kitchen and return, and he doesn't trust his legs to not give out should he try to stand and follow her.

Her fingers are leaving a pleasant tingle in their wake on his scalp, and he tries to focus solely on this sensation. She's dragged her fingers through his hair before, but almost always when he had been wearing his wig, which muted much of the feel. But this feels so heavenly that he almost forgets how embarrassed he feels about his own patchy and prematurely grey hair. So he presses a chaste kiss to her collarbone, convinced that she must truly be an angel because surely only an angel would sit here like this caressing and soothing so tenderly him when he has no mask or wig.

In times past he could never fall back asleep after such a dream. He would lie awake desperately trying to forget until finally, hours later, he would realize that it was morning already.

He's unsure of how long she's been holding him and humming, but he does know it must be nearing an hour by now. He knows that he will not falling back asleep tonight, knows that he should tell her so and let her lay back down so that her night is not entirely spoiled by sitting up with him. But he also knows that he is a very selfish man, so he says nothing and allows her to continue.

She runs through every lullaby she knows, every soft song that she can still hum with her damaged vocal cords, and then she begins to hum something else. It's after two songs that he smiles against her skin, for suddenly he recognizes it - it's her Nightingale opera.

The score she has written proves to be the final piece of the puzzle of calming him down. His mind now focuses on what the stage choreography should look like, the design of the costumes. She had never fully intended The Nightingale to be anything other than a means of conveying her feelings, but he knows a smash success when he hears one, and he is insistent that it be played on stage when it is finished.

By the time she has reached the end of the coda, he feels almost normal again. He notices that her ministrations have gotten slower, and a glance up tells him that she's nearly nodding off.

"Christine," he whispers.

"Hmmm." her eyes fly open and she tries to pretend she isn't sleepy.

"You should lie down, you're tired."

"It's alright, Erik, I don't mind." she says brightly, but does not resist when he gently pushes her backwards towards the pillows.

One of them, at least, should get some sleep tonight.

Once laying down, she pulls him back into her arms.

"Are you feeling any better, love?" she asks. She has no intention of falling back asleep and leaving him to suffer, no matter how heavy her eyelids are feeling.

"Erik is much improved, thanks to your kindness."

"Good." she yawns.

She falls asleep soon enough, and Erik resigns himself to a night full of wakefulness.

That is why the next morning as he finds himself still in his wife's embrace and blinking awake, he is surprised. To be able to fall back asleep after such a dream - and to have untroubled sleep at that - he is much surprised that it was even possible. It is clearly only more proof that this woman who has married him is an angel, but that does not surprise him in the least.


	26. Chapter 26

It's when Christine is walking down a hallway as the audience is leaving that it happens, and immediately afterwards she has an unpleasant feeling that something bad is on the horizon.

She had only wanted to get her work over with for the night, and she was so close to completing that goal when suddenly a guest turned to her. There was the briefest moments of eye contact before the horror of being vigorously coughed on in close proximity. Her shoulders stiffened and she increased her pace, but it was already too late. Whether the man had not seen her until it was too late or perhaps he simply enjoyed the look of terror on the faces of others as he infected them, she had no idea.

What she does know by the next afternoon, however, is that she does not feel well anymore.

She feels so ill, in fact, that she barely makes it through the rest of her shift. Now she is coughing, but thankfully she knows to cover her mouth with her arm when she does so. The last thing she wants to make anyone else sick as well.

And on that note - at the end of her shift she asks Madame Giry (from a respectful distance, lest she breathe too forcefully and the sickness spread) to fetch some of her things from her bedroom down below and bring them to her old room upstairs.

"I'm so sorry to have to ask you, Madame, I wish I had left something of mine up here, but I moved everything downstairs- I don't even have a nightgown to wear! And could you please tell Erik about all this? I don't want him to worry, but I can't bear the thought of him getting sick because of me, either." she wrings her hands nervously before suppressing yet another cough.

That is how Madame Giry ends up at Erik's doorstep.

"What are you doing here?" the words sound unkind, but only because he has been expecting his wife instead.

"Christine is sick, Erik."

He flies from his seat with a great anxiety.

"What?!"

"It's nothing serious, I'm sure! But she wants to spend the night upstairs until she feels better."

"I will go too." he nods.

"No, Erik, she wants to stay above so that she does not get you sick as well."

Oh. He sits back down. So that's why Giry was here.

"She wanted me to get some of her things for her. Where is the bedroom?"

Erik fidgets nervously in the doorway of their bedroom as Giry pulls various articles out of the dresser and wardrobe. If only he could see his wife.

"Can I take them to her?" he asks.

Giry gives a long-suffering sigh.

"She's sick, Erik. She does not wish to infect you."

"But that's exactly why I should see her!" he frowns. "I have plenty of medical knowledge, I can help her."

"I know you do, dear, but I'm just following her request."

Giry folds up the clothing into a stack as Erik watches, biting his fingernails. Giry glances at him and chuckles.

"It seems you've already been infected by a bad habit of hers."

"How did she get sick? What are her symptoms?" he lets his hand drop.

"Well, she's been coughing a lot, she says she's running a fever. It must have been from that man that coughed on her."

His eyes narrow.

"What man?" he demands sharply.

She flutters her hands up and rolls her eyes.

"I do not know, Erik, just a random man. He was watching the show last night and when he left he turned and coughed in Christine's face for no reason."

Erik storms out of the doorway and paces in the hall, muttering to himself. Giry is quite certain that she hears the word 'lasso' at one point.

"I'm going up now, Erik."

"Wait!" he's pulled out of his tantrum and runs to the kitchen.

Giry follows to find him mixing a drink together and pouring it into a bottle with a cork stopper.

"Give this to her, please." he hands her the concoction. "It will help with the fever."

Giry takes the items upstairs, leaving Erik there below. She shudders just a little at the almost childlike look of abandonment in his eyes as he watches her go. Surely the man can last three days without the poor girl. But from the look on his face you'd think he thought Christine was never returning again.

She knocks on Christine's door before entering and setting the items at the foot of her bed.

"He made this for you." she gestures to the glass bottle.

"Oh, he's too precious." Christine sighs as she picks it up and looks at it. "Did he say what it is?"

"He only said it was for your fever."

Christine drinks it down, the taste not too terrible but still definitely medicine.

"Thank you, Madame."

Giry takes her leave and Christine changes into her nightclothes. She settles into her bed and into a fitful sleep, the fever making her too hot and too cold in turns.

It must be making her hear things, too, because she thinks she hears the door rattle then creak open. She glances over to the door. And now she's seeing things. Wonderful.

Wait-

"Erik!" she cries, pulling the sheet up over her nose and mouth.

Erik is standing in the doorway. His heart stutters at her cry, the way she the tugs at the sheet to hide herself - she's afraid of him! Perhaps she's not even sick, perhaps the poor thing had only wanted to get away from him - and now, now he's picked the lock on her door and forced his way in to her private room and what was he thinking to do such a thing?

"I don't want you to get sick, love. What are you doing here?"

The tension slightly eases from his shoulders - her voice is warm, and she is not angry or frightened - but he is embarrassed now that he's here.

"Erik only wanted to make sure that his Christine was okay." he fiddles with the tool he used to pick the lock behind his back.

Christine does not comment on how he got in, as she is quite aware of his skills in that area.

"Well you're already here so close the door behind you before someone sees you."

He complies and afterwards takes a few steps closer.

"I'm glad to see you, Erik, I am, but truly you should go before you catch this too."

"Nonsense." he tuts as he strides across to her bedside and presses the back of his hand to her forehead.

She's burning up. He pulls out another bottle from his pocket and hands it to her.

"My priority is making sure you get well, not avoiding becoming ill myself."

She sips the bottle, the same taste as the one before.

"Erik... What would we do if you got sick?" she asks softly.

He does not understand the question.

"Then I would make something to ease my symptoms and drink it."

"No, I mean... If you got very sick? I know you're quite skilled at pharmacy, but our home is rather drafty and damp at times, and I worry for you. Heaven forbid it should happen, but if I became very ill I could go to the hospital. Where will you go? We could not even fetch a doctor for you. What will happen if you come down with something worse than what you can treat?"

He can see the worry in her eyes illuminated by the soft candlelight.

"Oh, Christine..."

He backs away to the door. He isn't certain what he would do should such a thing happen to him, but he certainly does have an idea. Before Christine, he hadn't thought it would matter either way. He would either recover - or he would not. If not, well, it wouldn't have seemed like such a terrible loss, would it? But now... His Nightingale looks so sad on her old bed, contemplating his theoretical illnesses that suddenly he's struck with the fear of becoming sick. Surely it would matter now that there was someone to miss him. He could not do that to her. He could not get sick.

"I will see you when you are feeling well again, Christine. Make sure you drink all of that bottle."

She nods gratefully. "Thank you, Erik."

He locks the door behind him once again and fades into the shadows.

She sighs and flops down on her pillow, only to cough so hard that she sees stars. How she longs for him to still be there with her. She stares hard at the contents of the bottle, willing it to work faster before drinking it in one go.

Downstairs Erik paces absentmindedly from room to room. He doesn't know what to do with himself. Weariness finally sets in, and he enters his personal bedroom. He changes into his pajamas but hesitates before stepping into his old bed. It does not feel right, somehow, to lie here in his coffin while Christine is upstairs worried over his health.

He tentatively goes to their shared bedroom - he will always think of it as her bedroom, no matter what she says to the contrary, it will always be Christine's room that she graciously allows him to share with her - and stares at the bed. It seems so empty, so quiet without her. It feels wrong in here, too - like an he's an intruder somehow, has overstayed his welcome here now that the room's owner has gone.

But he is so lonely, and he does not want to go back to his dusty old coffin. He lays down on his side of the bed and stares across at the spot Christine normally occupies. He has never been one to complain of the coldness here so far under the ground, but he has grown accustomed to her warmth and the lack of it is sorely felt. His hand finds its way to her pillow and pulls it closer, and when he presses his face to it he can still smell the scent of her shampoo there. He feels pathetic, but he would gladly be the most pathetic creature on earth if it meant he would never have to be without her.

The following morning Giry is yawning as she enters her office, mind already full of the day's tasks ahead of her. She does not notice the secret door sliding open as flips through papers on her desk, so when she turns to put some of them on the shelf and instead sees Monsieur Opera Ghost standing there holding a tureen, she lets out a most undignified yelp.

Erik is unfazed by this noise. He holds the tureen out to Giry.

"Will you give this to Christine, please?"

Giry sighs inwardly. She would never say it out loud, but one of her favorite aspects of Christine and Erik's marriage was that she no longer had to carry messages between the two of them. She did, after all, have a life of her own to attended to - or she tried, at least - and that was a difficult thing to do when you're always expected to run a note or message to someone on the other side of the damn building. But Christine was sick, and she knew it was only temporary, so she took the tureen - which she found contained soup - to Christine's room, setting it on the table and asking after how she felt before leaving once more.

Her fever had broken during the night, but the cough was as bad as ever. The warm soup, however, feels lovely on her throat, small pieces of chicken and a creamy broth seasoned with herbs. She thinks that perhaps in a different life he could have been a famous chef.

It's in the middle of the day that Giry finally lays down the record books, rubbing her eyes. Too many numbers, she thinks to herself. It's time for lunch.

She stands to exit, then hears a voice come from the little lamp on table and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Giry..."

This man and his damned ventriloquist skills will be the death of her, she is certain of it.

She turns to look at the air vent she knows he's hiding behind.

"Heaven's sake, Erik - what is it?"

She can almost hear the scowl in his voice.

"What else could I possibly be inquiring after, woman?"

She suppresses the urge to chuckle, imagining him in the air duct, trying to be intimidating or commanding, as though he weren't crouched knees to chest in a dusty passage inhabited by all manner of insect and rodent.

"Her fever is gone, but the cough is quite bad, I'm afraid. She did enjoy your soup though."

"Thank you, Giry. I will have something ready for you to take to her again this evening."

He is silent after that, probably hoping for the image of a ghost melting into shadow, but Giry must once again bite back amusement. She knows the dimensions of the air ducts, and knows with a certainty that right now he's crawling along on his hands and knees. She leaves the room in a hurry, hoping he doesn't hear the quiet snicker she simply can't hold back at the realization that her old friend is probably still wearing his cape as well. What an image.

Sure enough, that evening Giry brings another tureen of soup - various vegetables with a hint of honey - and another stoppered bottle. This bottle has a distinctly stronger and different taste, a much thicker consistency as well, but she manages to drink it knowing that it will help.

Sleep is easier to come by for Christine that night, her cough finally easing. Giry brings her a breakfast tray, eggs and soft toast and fruit this time. One more bottle of that strange purple potion on the side. By that afternoon she realizes she's only coughed once or twice, and by that evening she feels much improved. The next day she feels back to her normal self, but waits just to be certain. Four days after moving upstairs, she declares herself well enough to be around Erik again, promptly packs her things, and travels down the catacombs.

She finds him in the kitchen, no doubt working on her next meal. His habit of walking so quietly must have worn off on her, for he doesn't realize she's there until she unceremoniously drops her neatly folded clothes on the floor and rushes at him, flinging her arms around his neck.

"Christine! You are feeling better, I take it?" he returns her embrace, daring to press a kiss to the top of her head. He has missed her so.

She nods.

"Thank you for cooking for me, Erik. And thank you for the medicine as well, even if that second one did have the most hateful texture."

He huffs.

"More hateful than coughing your lungs out, dear? I dare say you still drank it, otherwise you would not be here with me so soon again."

She giggles at this, and asks what will be for dinner.


	27. Chapter 27

Despite everything, Erik did occasionally leave the catacombs and venture outside, though always under the cover of darkness. There were shadowy associates to do business with, items to 'liberate' from various stores - and sometimes a break away from the dismal underground was sorely needed. Such excursions were less now that Christine was here, as he would never dream of taking her with on such an unsavoury outing and he was also hesitant to spend much time away from her. But such trips had to be made every now and then, and it was on one such trip that, while waiting in an alleyway for the lone figure on the streets to walk out of sight before crossing to the other side that something happens to give him quite a fright.

Out of nowhere there's a sharp, firm grip on his shoulder, a heavy weight. To be ambushed in such a sudden and violent manner - he nearly has a heart attack. Just as suddenly he's pushed back, and as he leans against the brick wall he gets a view of just who caused this to him.

The little intruder alights on the ground in front of Erik and turns in a small circle to look at him. It's been ages since he's seen a cat like this, all light fur gleaming in the moonlight and dark paws and face. He sucks in a deep breath - the last time he saw a cat like this was in Persia. It's blue eyes look at him expectantly and it lets out a high pitched meow. It must have jumped off the roof, he realizes distantly. What was a cat like this doing out here? No matter. He has work to do.

He reaches down to pet the animal's head, which it seems to appreciate, before he turns back to his task. He crosses the now empty street and pauses in front of the store, whipping out a small tool from inside his sleeve and inserting it into the lock on the door. It pops open without effort, and he enters.

He feels a smidgen of guilt as he peruses the isle with the women's hats - Christine would surely disapprove of his methods of procuring it, but she would also truly enjoy this small dark blue hat with feathers on the brim. Christine does not have to know, he tells himself, but the guilt surges back to him up as he's walking to the door with the hat in hand so he pauses at the cash register, reaches into his pocket and fumbles for something. He pulls out a few bills - just a little more than the hat would have cost - and shoves them under the register where the clerk would surely see them in the morning. He smiles wryly. Christine has changed him, indeed.

He's almost out the door when a loud sound pierces the silence - that high pitch of a meow.

He turns.

The cat is there, having followed him inside somehow and now sitting on a high up shelf.

"Get down from there." he hisses at the creature.

The cat stares back insolently.

"I've half a mind to lock you in here, you wretched beast." he whispers harshly.

But he turns once more when he reaches the door, looking back in the hope that the cat would follow him outside as well.

Sure enough, after he pauses in the doorway for a long moment, the cat follows.

He waits for it to walk outside before closing the door again. His prize finally in his clutches, he begins to make his way back to the Opera House. He glances back. The cat still follows. He stops. The cat sits down.

He narrows his eyes at it. He points a solitary finger menacingly in its direction.

"Do not." he tells it firmly.

With a swish of his cape he begins to walk away again.

A sneaking suspicion tells him to look back. He does so and sighs.

"I'm sure you have someone that misses you."

Such an expensive cat surely had an owner somewhere, doesn't it...?

The cat looks up at him mournfully and meows again. It picks up its pace, rushing forward to rub against his ankles.

"Go back home, little one." he frowns at it.

But it continues to follow him until finally he stops entirely. He looks at it closer.

It was hard to tell in the dark at first, but her long fur is gnarled and matted at the edges. He picks her up and as he does so, he realizes he can feel every single rib - the poor thing is so thin but he almost didn't notice due the length of the fur. One of her ears looks as though a larger animal tried to take a bite out of it. He clicks his tongue at the animal's condition.

"You've had quite a rough time, haven't you, dear?" he whispers to her in Arabic as he cradles her to his chest.

She begins to purr as she rubs her face against him once more and he sighs wearily, realizing that he now no longer has the heart to leave the little creature on the streets to starve.

A cat like this should be kept in fine conditions, a warm bed and safe from the elements, the finest foods twice a day, her silky coat brushed each evening. Instead she's been left to fend for herself, alone with no one to care, lost and wandering in solitude and falling into illness because of it. She reminds him of Christine as a child, weeping on the chapel floor. She reminds him of himself before Christine. He cannot leave her here, no.

So he walks back to his home with the cat in his arms, trying to think of how he's going to explain this to his wife.

By the time he gets home Christine is already asleep. He takes the cat - Ayesha, he calls her now - and sits on the couch with her, taking a brush to her fur and then providing her with a saucer of water and a plate of meat from the pantry. Ayesha eats her fill and then stalks off. Curious, Erik follows her. The beast certainly feels at home here, he muses to himself. She pushes her nose against the door to his bedroom, moving it slightly more ajar so that she can enter. Once inside, she jumps right into the open coffin, turning in a circle a few times before curling up to sleep. Well. Erik huffs. What a strange animal. He shakes his head and goes to change his clothing before silently slipping into bed beside Christine. He will tell her in the morning, he swears it.

It's not that he intends to keep this from her - it's nothing like that. He certainly intended to tell her first thing after they woke up. The words are on the tip of his tongue, in fact, when Christine rolls over to smile at him - he's just about to tell her when suddenly he's being kissed.

"I missed you last night." she murmurs to him before deepening her kisses, and suddenly there's a more pressing matter to attend to with his wife and he certainly can't bring up the cat right now because his mind is otherwise occupied.

And afterwards there's breakfast to prepare and then to eat, and now she's rushing off to work, nearly late for her shift - again - because they lingered just a little too long in bed - again.

She sighs as she practically runs up the steps. She hates being late for work, but to cut short such moments with Erik? Impossible. Besides, she thought to herself, Giry is surely used to it by now. She has never mentioned to Christine about the numerous times she'd be late for work, not after the first time when she had scolded her and asked what she had been doing that kept her from showing up on time - Christine's face had turned red as she had tried to brush her hands through her mussed curls and tugged at the neckline of her dress in an attempt to hide the mark Erik had left there on her chest. Giry's face had suddenly fell flat and she had turned away from Christine, quickly telling her not to worry over how late she was and promptly changing the subject, for which they had both been very grateful.

Erik sighs as he's left in silence after Christine has gone upstairs. He will tell her when she returns, surely.

But then when she returns she leads them to the couch and she sprawls across his lap and asks if he'll let her hair down, so he spends the evening listening to her stories of what happened during the day as he pulls the pins out from her hair until there are none left and her long curls which had been tightly wound in a bun now cascade down her back.

It would be wrong to interrupt her now, he tells himself as he gently runs his fingers through her soft hair. So he doesn't bring it up that night. He does, however, he gift her with the hat he acquired on the same trip.

"Oh Erik, it's so lovely!"

She does not ask how he managed to come by it - she has an idea, and knows that he would likely tell the truth if she asked, but she also feels her own conscious can remain clean if she simply never knows for certain, and really the hat is too lovely to spoil with the reality of how it came to be in her possession. It was a gift from her beloved, and that was good enough for her.

Ayesha has been strangely absent, Erik marks as he falls asleep that night. Surely, he will tell Christine tomorrow. But tomorrow comes and goes, and by the next day he feels far too sheepish to bring it up - how awkward, so many days after the fact. He's been leaving food and water in his bedroom for her, and they've both been disappearing, but he still hasn't seen Ayesha since she was in his coffin. For all he knows the cat wandered out of the catacombs after taking a nap and found her way above already, never to return. There's the missing food that implies she's been here, but there's also the distinction possibility that a rat may be eating it instead - imagine telling Christine that! 'My dear, I found a cat outside so I brought it here but now it's missing - no worries, my love, we may be missing a cat currently but I'm almost certain that a rat has replaced her.' The sheer preposterousness!

So he simply says nothing. It's easier that way. There's no point in telling Christine that they have a cat if they no longer do. He continues to leave the food and water, though, just in case.

It's about a week later that Christine has the day off. She's been feeling rather fatigued, so she doesn't mind when Erik slips off to watch the rehearsals for the show without her. A bit of quiet by herself will do her well, she thinks.

She's dozing on the couch by the fireplace when out of nowhere a longhair cat waltzes up to fire and flops over on the rug, licking one paw calmly. Christine thinks she's imagining it at first - she shoves herself up to get a better look. But the cat is truly there.

"Kitty!" she whispers urgently.

The cat ceases it's licking but otherwise ignores her, blinking slowly at the flames.

Christine makes kissey noises and pats the side of the couch intently. She loves cats, but her dear father had been allergic, and after he was gone it simply wasn't practical to have one.

Ayesha turns her icy blue gaze to the woman making a fool of herself, the look of haughtiness on her feline face, that, if she had been had been human, would have caused Christine to shrink away.

But on this furry little face, all the disdain in the world only served to make her even more adorable to Christine. What a precious little thing! She slides off the couch and sits next to the cat on the rug, daring to reach out and pet her. Her fur was beautiful, but she felt a little bony underneath and that made her sad. She immediately gets up and grabs some foods from the kitchen - small enough that Erik wouldn't notice they were missing - and brings them back to the cat, holding them out to her on her palm.

The cat sniffs the foods for ages before deigning to finally eat from her hand. Christine stifles a squeal, falling in love with the little animal as it licks her fingers.

Animals sometimes found their way in through the catacombs, she knew. Once a bat had flown in, causing her a great deal of grief and fright before Erik finally managed to catch it in a towel to release it farther away from their home, and once she had managed to get a closer look at the thing she had realized it had a quite precious face and wasn't frightening at all, suddenly feeling silly for ever thinking otherwise. It was a good animal that helped the environment, Erik had told her, and she liked to think that maybe that same bat was still out there under the Opera House with them. Another time a skunk had found its way in, and that animal had caused a bit more pandemonium than the bat, but Erik had once again managed to wrap it safely in a towel and deposit it outside - although not without quite a bit of fuss.

It must be the same for this sweet little visitor, Christine thinks as she strokes her glorious fur. She begins to purr and Christine's heart melts. This is her cat now, she decides with a firm nod. She only hopes that Erik will approve. She makes up her mind to tell him as soon he comes back.

Except when he gets back he's in quite a mood over how poorly rehearsals went, and she doesn't want to bring the cat up now when he's angry. So she tuts and shakes her head at the parts of rants that seem to call for that, and nods in agreement when agreement is called for, and places a hand on his knee and says "It would have run so much better if you had been in charge, darling", and his temper abates just as she knew it would with this course of action. He still looks vaguely annoyed through the rest of the evening, however, so she decides to continue to avoid the topic of the cat that now lives with them.

But for the next week or so, she still managed to steal away bits and pieces of foods from the kitchen and leave them in a dish that she hides behind the couch. She still can't seem to find the right time to bring it up to Erik, as each passing day she feels more and more silly for not bringing it up at once, and now she truly feels like she's done something wrong, as though she were hiding her on purpose, and she does shed a tear or two over this - she really ought not keep things from him, it weighs so heavily on her - but now it's been going on so long she can barely think of it without getting flustered so she supposes that this is her her new normal.

The whole charade is nearly discovered one night when they're both on the couch. It was a quiet night, each of them with a book to read, his head resting in her lap and her feet up on an ottoman, neither one with a single care in the world - until there comes a noise from the other room. It's almost certainly the sound of a small sized animal jumping down to the ground from a shelf or countertop.

She freezes, glancing down at him. He's definitely heard the noise because he's looking at her with an odd look on his face. Her mind races and she panics - he's about to say something, she knows it, he's going to ask what that noise is and then he's going to investigate and then all will be found out - so she says the first thing that pops into her mind, the one thing she'll know will distract him from whatever it is he's about to say -

"I love you Erik."

A heavy wave of guilt settles on her as the words fall out - she's used their love as a tool in deception- shame, shame, shame!

He smiles tightly, awkwardly. He was certain she was about to ask him what that noise was, and then what was he supposed to do? He tries not to get distracted by her sentiments, he must stay focused so he won't be caught by surprise.

"I love you too, Christine."

He raises his book over his face once again, hoping to look as though he was deeply interested in the words on the page so that maybe she wouldn't ask anything about the noise of Ayesha in the other room.

She raises her own book likewise, biting her lip behind the pages and hoping he won't be too angry about her keeping this from him, even though it has reached the point of absurdity now.

It's really too much now, and they each firmly decide that they'll tell the other the very next day.

After breakfast, he decides. News is always taken better after a good meal.

After breakfast, she resolves. That way she has time to think of what she's going to say.

But it's not halfway through the meal that their choice is wrenched from their hands - the cat jumps up onto the table between them, strides over to the platter that's in the middle, and begins to eat the slices of toast that are resting there.

There is utter silence for several minutes as they both stare at each other and the cat in turn, a silence punctuated only by the munching noise she making as she devours the toast.

"I meant to tell you, Erik, I really did-!"

"I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner-!"

They both blurt out at the same time only to stop.

"Wait, what?"

"Excuse me?"

They pause before Erik gestures for Christine to start.

She folds her hands on the table, looking at her pet that's now moved on to licking the sliced fruit.

"She wandered in here, Erik, and I simply couldn't turn her away - she was so thin! And so soft! And- and I love her, and I really did mean to tell you sooner and I'm so sorry!"

Erik is silent for a long moment, staring at the cat. She no longer looks thin, in fact she's almost rather fat now - and he realizes dimly that Christine must have been feeding her as well. That little scoundrel of a feline.

"You think she wandered in." he states.

Christine nods.

"Like that skunk that got in, remember?"

Erik raises his eyebrows. There was no forgetting that skunk, and the both of them knew it.

"She didn't wander in, Christine." he hesitates. It's tempting to let her think what she will, but he can't bear to lie to her. "I- I found her the last time I was out at night and I brought her back here."

Christine is rather surprised - it's been over a month since he was out last.

"Oh! Oh, well- I thought- oh goodness, so you've known the whole time?"

He nods sheepishly.

"I meant to tell you straight away, but I wanted to tell you when I could actually present her to you, and Ayesha kept hiding after I brought her here, you see-"

Christine tilts her head.

"Ayesha? You named her Ayesha?"

"Yes..." he narrows his eyes. "Why, what did you name her?"

Christine shoves her food around on her plate with the fork, pointedly not meeting his eye.

"Christine." he chides her. "Just tell me."

She purses her lips into a thin line and stubbornly holds her silence a few moments longer before answering in a mutter.

"I've been calling her Kitty."

Erik just barely manages to suppress a snort. He had expected something more... creative.

"But Ayesha fits her better." Christine adds.

Erik looks down at his own plate, frowning.

"Are you certain, my dear?" he asks gravely. "She certainly is a kitty, after all."

"Erik!"

Christine is sorely tempted to scoop up the rest of her scrambled eggs in her spoon and fling them at the man across from her.


	28. Chapter 28

Erik was trying so hard to be good, to not listen to the little voices in his head. He had been getting so much better at it, too - tuning out that panicking voice that said everyone was lying to him and things were constantly on the verge of utter ruin.

So when he starts to see the little signs, he tries to tell himself otherwise. But one by one they pile up until there is simply no other way around it.

Christine is leaving him.

He is certain of it.

It had started simply enough - she suddenly had to start working more hours. Perhaps they were short staffed, he told himself as he tried to avoid the obvious. Perhaps someone had gotten sick or taken a vacation and Christine had been picked to fill their absence. But then he came to find out that Christine had specifically asked to work more hours. It surely couldn't be a money issue - Erik had plenty of money, and any amount of that was hers for the asking. Perhaps she was bored spending her time down here? Perhaps she was bored of him.

With the extra hours at work she had less time for her music. That was to be expected, of course - but Erik still felt it stung him more than it reasonably should. When she did have time off, it seemed the last thing she wanted to do was work on her opera.

He had even brought the subject up on her night off. She had been reclining on the couch and staring at the fire when he had approached her.

"Are you still tired from work, Christine?"

"No, not very."

"It's been so long since we had a chance to work on your opera together, would you like to join me in composing tonight?"

She had glanced over at him as though she had only half heard what he had said.

"Not tonight, Erik."

He had nodded and left the room. He sat in front of the organ, blinking down at the keys and frowning. Either she was lying to him about tired she was, or she would literally rather sit and do nothing than to work on her music - their music. She knew better than anyone that the opera she - they - were writing was not mere notes on a page or a collection of words strung together. Of course she was not obligated to work on it constantly, but it was such a personal piece, was so tightly entwined to their own lives and emotions that her denial of it seemed a denial of him as well.

Even still, he tried to stomp down any thoughts of deeper implications. Once he had gone years without working on Don Juan Triumphant, so surely he should not read too much in this, right?

She also finds she no longer has time to come downstairs on her lunch breaks, and will occasionally miss dinner or breakfast as well. Erik tries to not take this personally, either - she likes his cooking, she's told him often enough, but he does enjoy cooking for her and he enjoys sharing meals with her even more, so it's another interrupted activity that he sorely misses.

But he tries to continue on as if everything were normal. He's not used to spending so much time away from Christine. It's terribly lonely, so he decides to wander through the tunnels upstairs just to hear some human voices. It's not that he intended to spy on her per say, but he did happen to run across the room she was working in. He hadn't known that she'd be in there as it was a room she typically didn't work in, but with the extra hours he supposed she was doing all sorts of new tasks as well as her regular ones. He pauses in front of the hairline crack in the wall. He misses hearing her talk - she's been terribly quiet lately when she finally comes home in the evenings.

"I still have to arrange the carriage to the docks."

"But you already have your tickets for the ship, yes?" Madame Giry asks.

"I do. I got those way in advance. Oh, I'm so nervous! But I want this so much."

"I think it's entirely for the best, dear, and I completely approve. It will be difficult of course, but I know that you won't stop until you're on the deck of that boat, watching as this shore gets smaller and smaller until all of your worries that are tied to this place are gone from view." Giry sighs. "I'm so happy for you."

"Erik doesn't suspect a thing so far, as much as I can tell. If I can only keep it that way right up until it's time to leave... If he finds out then everything will be spoiled. I can't have that. This waiting is so awful, Madame! Would that I could simply get it over with immediately and be away from here!"

Erik jerks back as though he's been slapped. He wracks his brain trying to come up with a better explanation but comes up empty.

Christine is taking a carriage to the docks. Christine is getting on a boat that will take her away from her worries that are tied to this building. Nothing is going to stop her, she can't wait to leave, she does want Erik to know, and Madame Giry agrees that it's the best course of action.

Their conversation turns to other matters, and he wanders down the thin hallway behind the walls as if in a trance. It's a good thing he knows these pathways so well, because his vision is getting blurry from the tears that insist on gathering in his eyes.

Did she really hate him that much? That she couldn't wait to get away from him. And Giry had agreed! He had considered a friend all this time, and to hear her betray him like that-! But perhaps it was because she was his friend that she knew him so well, knew him to be such a farce of a man, that she was uniquely qualified to encourage his wife to leave him.

His wife.

Hardly even that. Legally they were not even married. He had no birth certificate, no last name - from a legal standpoint he did not even exist. How could such a man take a wife in the eyes of the law? She wouldn't even have to get to divorced, why - she could marry anyone she wanted at right this very moment and there was nothing and no one to say otherwise. What right did he have to call her his wife? At the very most one could say they were married in the eyes of God - the priest had said so, after all. But Erik has long had the suspicion that the eyes of God so rarely fall on one such as him, and surely not even God would fault Christine for breaking the vows she had taken that bound her to a creature of darkness.

He pauses, taking off his mask to scrub his sleeve across his eyes. They hadn't even been living together for half a year before she was already plotting her escape - one that apparently required putting an entire ocean between him and her. Was he truly that awful, still? All his work towards bettering himself, all his attempts to put her first in everything - was he still so horrible to be around?

He sits down in the tunnel, not caring of the dust and cobwebs sullying his suit, and cries into his hands. Had he done something? Was there something he should have done that he had neglected to do? He vows to be more attentive, not to get her to change her mind, no - her mind appears quite made up - but simply to ease her suffering for the rest of what little time she's forced to be around him. He doesn't even know how much longer she'll stay - it would not take very long to arrange a carriage, after all. She might not even come back tonight. He's struck by the thought that perhaps he's already seen her for the very last time.

He numbly makes his way back to his house. He replays the overheard conversation in his mind over and over. She didn't want him to know until she was out the door - was it because she was afraid of his reaction? Did she think he had been lying when he had told that he'd let her go if she ever wished it? Was she expecting him to trap her here, kidnap her once again and hold her against her wishes? That thought hurt him nearly as much as the thought of her leaving. He considered simply bringing the matter to her - laying everything bare and confessing what he'd heard, apologizing for the awful mess of a person he was, and telling her that she need not wait at all if she wanted so badly to leave. But to do so would require him to admit that he had been listening to her personal conversations, and perhaps that would cause her to hate him even more. He curses his own selfishness that prompts him to let her stay as long as she can, that causes him to hide his own shameful actions so as to appear better to the woman who hates him regardless. But either way he chooses they cannot win - either she leaves him immediately and finds reason to despise him all the more, or he lets her stay and they both suffer silently.

He manages to compose himself as best he can and sets about preparing dinner, trying to think of all the possibilities that she could find off-putting about him and their life together. The list is quite numerous.

He had thought things had been going so well, though - what had happened?

He is actually surprised when she walks through the door.

"Are you hungry, Christine? I have made dinner for us."

He had spent the evening preparing a stew from a Swedish recipe - perhaps all the foreign recipes he cooked were too strange, surely she would enjoy a meal from her homeland.

"Oh- I already ate when I was upstairs. I was so busy, you know, I just grabbed something while I was working. I think I'm just going to get ready for bed." she manages an apologetic look at him before heading to her room.

"Ah. I see. Of course."

He sits in the kitchen by himself, but suddenly he doesn't feel very hungry either.

He puts off going to bed as long as he can - surely she'll appreciate the extra time away from him, he thinks.

When he finally joins her in bed he makes certain to stay respectfully to his own side and keep his hands to himself. He wonders if there's been nights she didn't want his arms around her, didn't want his hands on her hips or shoulders, didn't want to feel him next to her, but was too polite - or afraid - to say anything.

Christine glances behind her, surprised that he's keeping his distance.

"Why are you wearing your mask?" she asks sleepily.

He stares at the ceiling, not answering.

"You can't sleep in your mask, Erik. Your face will get too irritated. It's not good for you."

"I don't mind." he replies easily enough.

She groans at this. She wants to press the issue because he's never kept his mask on while sleeping before, but she is so terribly tired that she lets it go.

He knows that she's said over and over that she doesn't mind his face, but what if she didn't entirely mean that? Perhaps she had changed her mind after having to see it every night. Erik is no fool - he knows that even if she truly does not mind his face that he still looks better with the mask on. And besides... If these are to be their last few days together - perhaps even their last night together - he would much prefer that she remember him as at least slightly less monstrous than he actually was.

He awakes early from a fitful sleep - the porcelain of his mask kept finding the most unpleasant ways to press into him no matter what position he was in. He takes it off and tries to rub at his face, finding that it truly had irritated the skin underneath. He would have to mix up some herbs into a balm to keep it from getting infected. But first - breakfast. One glance at Christine was enough to tell that she was still asleep, but he lingered a moment longer, hoping to memorize the image of her here in this bed with him before she was gone forever.

He wonders again where it had all turned wrong - things had been going so well, had they not? Was he so blind that he couldn't even see what had happened? Was- was there someone else? He swallows hard. He couldn't fault her for that - for wanting a normal life with a normal man. Christine was a creature of pure light - she didn't belong here in a dungeon, in a tomb.

He sets about cooking her favourite breakfast for her.

When she comes into the kitchen for breakfast and sees what he's made, she gives him the most dazzling smile that, for just a moment, makes him second guess the words he'd heard with his own ears. Would a woman so desperate to flee from him smile in such a way? Ah, but he himself had taught her acting in addition to singing, hadn't he? She always was such a good actress.

The briefest flicker of hope glows in his heart as they sit down together - and is immediately extinguished when he notices she is no longer wearing his ring. So it really is over, he thinks. He doesn't eat any of the food he took so long to cook, and Christine doesn't even seem to notice. She thanks him for the meal and presses a kiss to the side of his face before going upstairs. How pathetic, he thinks, that he'll take even this scrap of affection knowing that it means nothing anymore.

Sure enough her ring is still on her nightstand when he goes to look for it. A part of him begs to think that she merely forgot it, but he knows that she always wears her ring, always - she doesn't take it off to sleep so for her to leave it here was a deliberate choice.

He's at a loss of what to do, of what it all means, so he dresses for an excursion outside. He makes his way through alleys and shadows and finally arrives at Nadir's apartment. He's quickly granted entrance by his servant, and Nadir's smile of surprise quickly falls from his face when he sees Erik's solemn look.

"I take it the reason for this visit is not a good one, old friend."

Erik manages to hold it together until the servant is out of the room.

"She's leaving me, Daroga." he sits heavily on the couch, pressing his palms into his eyes.

Nadir regards him for a moment.

"Are you certain about this? You're sure you aren't overreacting to something you've taken wrong?"

Nadir cares for Erik, he does enjoy his company and he knows that the man has a dizzying intellect - but he also knows his penchant for overdramatic reactions to the simplest of things.

"I overheard her telling of the boat ticket she bought, of how she can't wait to leave, and- and she's-" he breaks off, unable to fully face it for a few moments.

"She's taken off her wedding ring, Daroga." he finally whispers.

Well. Nadir sits down next to him. He must admit, if Erik is telling full truth, it doesn't sound good.

"What will you do?" Nadir finally asks him.

"What can I do?" Erik shrugs.

"You'll let her go?"

"I have to. She isn't happy with me anymore."

Nadir nods. They had seemed so happy together when he had seen them last, not more than a couple months ago when he had stopped in to watch a show.

He stays with Nadir for the rest of the day, at first trying to figure out what had happened to make Christine wish to leave but they only come up with dead ends.

"I fear this is something you can only fully understand by discussing it with her." Nadir tells him.

When he finally returns home it's only moments before Christine herself returns. It's another night that she had dinner upstairs, and Erik still has had no appetite all day despite the cookies Nadir had convinced him to eat earlier.

He changes and prepares for bed, but pauses in the doorway to her bedroom. Her ring is still on the nightstand, untouched. Perhaps...

"Christine," he asks softly. "Do you- do you want me to sleep in here? With you?"

"Of course!" her reply is automatic, but then she hesitates. "I mean, only if you want to, that is."

He nods and looks down.

"Goodnight, Christine." he whispers as he leaves the doorway.

"Goodnight, Erik."

He thinks he hears a hint of sadness to her voice as he makes his way to his bedroom.

He's about to close his door when he hears her behind him.

"Erik, wait!"

She stops short in his doorway. She hasn't looked in the room since their ill-fated wedding night, and a wave of sorrow washes over her face when she sees that the coffin is still there.

"Please, Erik, you can sleep in bed with me if you'd like. You don't have to sleep in- in that, if you don't want to."

His heart sinks. He does want to spend the night next to her. He wants nothing more than to fall asleep with her in his arms once more, to be able to kiss her long and slow all night long as they have in the past. But his angel is too kind, he knows she'll sacrifice her own feelings to make him feel better. He is very selfish man, yes, but he could never live with himself if he forced such intimacy from her. To even to do nothing but sleep in the same bed seems to be asking far too much knowing what he knows about how she's longing to depart from here - and from him.

He raises one hand to cradle the side of her face but stops just before making contact. His hand hovers there as he realizes that perhaps she wouldn't want even that touch anymore, and he lets his hand drop to his side.

"It's alright, Christine." he tells her. "I do want to sleep here."

She makes no effort to tell him otherwise or to enter into his room any farther, so he musters a small smile that's more sad than anything and gently closes the door.


	29. Chapter 29

Christine bit her lip as she stared at closed door in front of her. She stood there for who knows how long, expecting him at any moment to change his mind and join her. But he does not. She sighs and finally returns to her room. Perhaps she should have pressed him more on the mask issue, she thinks wearily as she grabs her ring and twists it back into place on her finger.

He's always had his odd little moods and strange ideas, but she's never seen him sleep in his mask before and it had disturbed her more than she cared to admit. Had something happened? And now he wanted to sleep in that damn coffin. She must speak with him about it all tomorrow. But then she remembers how busy she is tomorrow - really she almost regrets asking for more work, especially since it's because of that that's she's missed whatever's caused her husband to sink into such a mood, but hopefully it will all be worth it at the end.

Erik must first remove Ayesha from the coffin before he can get in it, a thing that Ayesha does not appreciate in the least since she was already sleeping there. She jumps right back in, almost landing directly on Erik's face. He sighs sadly as he pets her fur, contemplating how his best years are almost certainly behind him now.

A knock on the door pulls him back to wakefulness in the early morning.

"Erik? I don't have time to stay for breakfast, but I'm having lunch with Giry in her office at noon, would you like to join us for that?"

His sleep addled mind struggles to make sense of it. Christine is leaving him, but Christine also wishes to have tea with him? He sits up and replies with some sort of words that must indicate his agreement to her, for she mentions how glad she is before saying she'll see him at noon. He pulls a piece of cat fur out of his mouth and grimaces. Ayesha had been quite insistent that the pillow in the coffin was in fact her pillow regardless of whether or not Erik had his head there already. He flops back down only to come into contact with her once more, as she had taken even the briefest of opportunities to reclaim her pillow. She yelps and swats at him before squirming out from under his head.

It's a very quiet and reserved Erik that arrives to tea at noon. He slips into the room without a sound, settling himself in the farthest chair as was his custom so long ago before he had began to join Christine on the couch when they were engaged.

Giry and Christine are already there, and Giry hands him a cup of tea. He politely declines any food, and merely takes a sip of the tea instead.

Christine exchanges a look with Giry - Erik has neglected his customary lemon entirely, despite there being a plate of slices just for him. Giry is concerned as well - Christine had mentioned that he seemed to be in a mood again, and she would believe it to look at him.

For his part, he does not know why he is here. Christine is planning on abandoning him in a matter of mere days, and Giry is encouraging her to do so. He keeps his eyes on the tea cup and avoids as much of the conversation as he possibly can. He had hoped, perhaps, to spend as much time as possible around the woman he loved before losing her forever, but he finds that doing so is only proving painful. He almost wishes that she'd hurry up and just go - this constant waiting, the never being sure of if he'll see her again, the wondering if these will be their last words to each other - it is too much.

Both women make attempts to draw him in to their chatter but he expertly deflects every time. Finally Christine must return to work and takes her leave of them. With her gone, Erik moves to set his cup down and leave as well.

"Erik, dear, whatever is the matter? You don't seem quite yourself today."

Erik flinches at the sympathy he hears in Giry's voice, which belies the fact that she herself was advocating for the very situation that was causing him to be this way. How dare she ask him that?

"You do not have to pretend any longer, Giry. I know what Christine is planning."

Giry's face falls, and that's all the confirmation Erik needs to know that it's really true. His stomach twists.

"Wha- whatever do you mean?" she stammers, trying to feign innocence.

"I overheard her speaking to you. She has her tickets to leave this place, to leave me." he smiles mirthlessly. "I guess I was correct after all, wasn't I? The long feared day has finally come."

Giry's brows knit in confusion.

He rises to leave, saying one last thing over his shoulder before he disappears.

"You can tell her that she need not wait and plan in secret any longer - if she wishes to leave me she can do so at once, I will not stop her. Erik may be a monster but his heart beats only for Christine - Erik would never hurt her or deny Christine her happiness."

She can hear that he's on the verge of tears when he gets to the end, and she jumps up from her chair.

"Erik! Erik wait - it's not like that at all!"

He stops and looks back towards her. The briefest flicker of hope passes through the anguish on his face.

"Oh? Then how is it, Giry?"

She stands and wrings her hands, unsure of what to tell him. Oh, if only Christine were here to explain it...

"That is what I thought." Erik says softly as he melts into the shadows.

She lunges for the door, shouting into the blackness-

"Erik! She loves you!"

Ah, Erik knows that. Christine loves him. Well, Christine loved Raoul too, and that didn't stop her from leaving him either. Christine loves Erik - but sometimes love is not enough. She can love him and still get on that boat and leave him - Erik knows that too. And Giry certainly hadn't denied it! He hates these tears falling down his face, he hates how they itch behind his mask, he hates how Giry heard his voice quiver, he this entire situation and he hates himself.

Giry closes the secret door and turns to follow Christine as fast as she can. She must tell her what's happened... But try as she might, she can't seem to find her. She sighs wearily and leans against a wall. Those two are going to be in for quite a surprise tonight, she thinks to herself.

Erik hears Christine arrive that evening. Giry surely told her, Erik thinks, and now she's probably here to pack her bags once and for all. He stays where he is, sitting in a chair in the corner of the living room. He can hear Christine walking from room to room until finally her footsteps draw closer. She peeks inside and spies him in his hiding place.

"There you are!" she practically skips over to him and throws her arms around his shoulders. "Happy Birthday, love!"

He frowns. Christine knows perfectly well it is not his birthday - or, perhaps it could be, even he does not know when it actually is because his mother never told him the exact day and never marked the occasion past that one fateful party. But this is the last turn he expected this conversation to take. Besides, how can she stand there and dare to call him love to his face?

"I don't understand you, Christine." he says truthfully and a little brokenly.

She keeps her arms around him, her face resting on his shoulder.

"I know it's probably not your actual birthday, but you did say it was around this time from what you remember, and, well - everyone deserves a birthday, you know? And that means I can get you a present!"

He frowns harder, eyebrows raised. Her gift is she's leaving him?

"We're going on a cruise, darling!" she hugs him tighter.

His mind tries its best to connect all of the dots, to piece together what he thought was going on and what she says is going on. He comes up short time and time again.

"I don't understand." he says again, shaking his head a little. "I thought-"

He's too embarrassed to finish what he was going to say.

"Did Giry talk to you after tea?" he asks instead.

"No, I haven't seen her since. Why?"

Erik is silent.

"Darling? What's wrong?" her concern is growing - he hasn't moved an inch since she first saw him in this room, and it's terribly unlike him to not return her embraces.

"Christine. I think we need to have a talk."

"Of course."

She lets him go and sits on the couch, gesturing for him to join her. He gets up stiffly and and sits on the couch as far from her as he can manage.

He takes a deep breath before beginning.

"I- I heard you talking with Giry that day, when you were talking about getting a carriage to the docks. I hadn't meant to spy on you, you must believe me-" he looks at her desperately when she cuts him off.

"It's okay, Erik." she smiles. "I know you're in the walls quite often. I just wish you hadn't heard that particular conversation, though!"

"Well, I heard you talking, and it seemed like... I thought you were going to..."

She waits for him to go on but he can't seem to say the words.

"Erik," she says softly. "We must always be honest with ourselves and with each other, remember? It's alright."

She reaches out and squeezes his hand.

"Christine, it sounded like you were going to leave me."

She gasps.

"Oh, oh- it did, didn't it?" she covers her mouth with her hand. Had he been thinking she was about to leave him for days now? Poor Erik!

"I'm not going to leave you, Erik. I'm sorry that you thought so. You should have brought it up to me instead of jumping to conclusions." she tells him gently.

He pulls his hand away from hers.

"It wasn't just that, I wasn't merely jumping to the conclusion - it only made sense when all other things were considered."

He still sounds irritated and defensive, and her heart sinks.

"What other things, Erik? Tell me?"

He's hesitant to bring it all up, but she did ask...

"You took on more hours at work, like you didn't want to be around me as much. And I know it was only natural with working more, but you didn't have time to have meals with me anymore, and you didn't seem to want to work on music at all with me... And you- you took off your ring." his voice breaks. "Well what I supposed to think with all that? Especially when I hear you talking about wanting to get away from here and 'don't tell Erik' and secret carriage rides and ship tickets?"

"Oh, love..." she sighs.

"Why, Christine?" he can't hold back the tears now but he's still struggling valiantly to pretend he isn't crying.

She feels as though she's been struck through the chest with an arrow. Her plans have backfired spectacularly and the opposite of what she had been hoping for has been achieved.

"I was hoping to surprise you with a vacation, Erik. I wanted more hours so I could afford to buy the tickets." she tells him sadly.

"I have all the money you could ever want, Christine. You could have just asked me if there was something you wanted to buy." he chokes out.

"I know you do! But- it's different. I wanted to buy them with the money I earned - I'd feel so silly asking you for money to buy a gift for you."

He nods. It made sense, he supposed, but that didn't stop it from hurting.

"And it's true that I haven't been eating with you lately, and I'm sorry if I never told you how much I miss that as well. But I have been busy. I've been so busy I just don't feel as creative, or if I do I'm simply too tired to get it out onto paper. I've not given up on our opera, and I've not given up on us either. And Erik, look-"

She holds her hand up, the ring in its place on her finger.

"I took my ring off because I was replanting some potted plants that day - I didn't want to risk losing the ring you gave me, it's simply too precious, so I left it here where it would be safe."

Oh.

Oh no.

Erik falls forward into her arms.

"I only wanted to surprise you with a gift, Angel."

"Erik has made quite the fool of himself yet again, it seems." he whispers.

She gives a small laugh as she rocks him side to side in her embrace.

"It's alright, darling. It only made sense, when you put it that way, but I assure you nothing could be farther from the truth."

She kisses his forehead.

"Is that why you were wearing your mask that night? And why you slept in your cof- in your room?"

He nods.

She holds him a little tighter. It was so hard to tell what to do with Erik at times. When he had stood in her doorway asking if she wanted him in the room with her, she knew there must have been some underlying reason - but was he looking for validation, or was he hoping for a night to himself? She had simply told the truth - she wanted him with her if he wanted to be with her. She knew if she had insisted he would have stayed with her whether he wanted to or not, and she didn't want to override his own wishes. But when she saw he was planning to go to his coffin, she had begun to feel perhaps she had made the wrong choice in what she had told him. She didn't think it was entirely mere self-flattery to assume that he preferred sleeping next to her as opposed to sleeping in a literal coffin. One day, she thinks, one day they'll understand each other better and then they won't have such problems as often.

"Does this mean that you'll stay with me tonight?" she asks.

He nods again.

"If you do not mind."

"I never mind, Erik."

"That is for the best - Ayesha has quite commandeered my coffin, anyway."

They sit in silence for a few moments.

"When, ah- when does the cruise depart, by the way?"

She chuckles softly.

"Next week, darling."

He feels quite silly for the rest of the night - silly and hurt and relieved. It had seemed so real, how close he thought he was to losing her. He had fallen prey to his own mind yet again. Even now, with her curled against his chest as she slept, he still had to remind himself that everything was going to be okay. But they have their vacation to look forward to - there might be awkward moments on board, yes, but the ship departs from such a faraway dock that surely few if any will even be thinking of the masked man who's wanted on murder charges from years ago. Besides, Christine had explained that the room she had booked had a view of the ocean from its window, just in case it still felt a little unsafe to go out with the general public.

The next morning Erik follows Christine upstairs to Giry's office. She intends to ask for a day or two off so she can spend them with Erik. When they get there, they find that Giry already has a visitor - Nadir.

He rises when he sees Christine appear from the secret door, not noticing Erik who is hanging slightly behind.

"Ah, Miss Daae." he says mournfully. "I heard. My condolences. I know our Erik can be... A lot to deal with at times."

Christine bites her lip.

Erik appears beside her.

"What was that, Daroga?" he asks.

"Erik," Christine hisses at him. "Did you tell Nadir we were getting divorced?"

Erik puts a possessive arm around his wife's shoulders even as she's glaring daggers at him.

"Forget the whole thing, Daroga, it was a false alarm. Everything is fine, I assure you."

"Ah, I see then." Nadir adjusts his glasses. "So I believe then, that it was in fact an overreaction to a misunderstanding, in that case?"

"You try my patience, Daroga."

"For heavens sake, Erik-" Giry cuts in. "The poor girl tries to do something nice for you and assume the very worst of it and hole yourself up in that coffin of yours-"

"Christine!" Erik sputters. "Did you tell Giry about our bedroom problems?!"

Nadir looks confused. "Bedroom problems?"

Christine jabs a finger into Erik's ribs. "I'll tell Madame whatever I please, especially since you've been talking to Nadir and making me out to be a viper!"

"-Do you two know how many problems you would solve - how many less you'd even have in the first place if you would simply talk these things out with each other instead of bringing them to us?-"  
Giry continues on.

"Perhaps I should offer my condolences anyway, it seems." Nadir says.

"No one asked you, old man!" Erik booms across at him.

"-You should have known he doesn't tolerate surprises, Christine, and he's clearly not capable of being left on his own while you're at work-"

"Old man? Erik, you're far closer in age to me than you are to Christine."

"Yet another fact no one asked for, Daroga!"

"I'm quite aware of that now, Madame, that's why I need a few days off to look after him." Christine rolls her eyes.

"Yes, Madame, I'm sure you'll get all the juicy details of exactly how those days are spent! Isn't that right, Christine?"

"I think it's only fair she have someone to confide in, after everything you've told me, Erik."

"-Every time something like this comes up we all get dragged in somehow, are you both incapable of sorting your problems out yourselves? Do you think we like-"

"For goodness sake, Erik - I only told her that you sleep in a coffin sometimes! It's not like I told her how you-"

"Christine!" Erik shouts, cutting her off. "Please show some decorum!" His face has gone terribly red and feels like it's on fire.

The shouting match comes to an abrupt end with a knock on the door.

"I say, is everything okay in there?" a voice on the other side asks.

All four figures in the room have frozen stock still, their eyes wide and fixed on the door. Surely one of them will have to answer.

"We're fine!" Christine calls out.

"Are you certain? That sounded quite intense."

"Yes, we're fine!"

The voice's owner still hesitates by the door.

"We were rehearsing a opera!" she shouts.

"I've never heard that opera before..."

"It's new!"

A pause.

"Please leave now!"

The rooms other occupants silently groan.

"O-okay?"

Footsteps hesitantly retreat down the hallway.

The room is cloaked in silence for long minutes as they attempt to hear if anyone is returning.

Absolutely unable to help himself, Nadir whispers,

"So is the divorce still on, then?"


	30. Chapter 30

The carriage picks them up two streets away from the Opera House, Christine taking the normal, obvious path to get there and Erik slinking in the alleys and back roads to meet her there.

"I am sorry you had to carry my luggage for me, my dear. Thank you for doing so."

Christine tries to hide the smirk on her face by strategically pretending to lean into a hand.

"It's nothing, Erik. You are quite welcome."

Erik's luggage was decidedly not nothing - the man had packed nearly as many clothes as Christine and she was notorious for overpacking. Still, she didn't mind pulling the extra bags with her, because she knew that for him to do so himself would only draw attention when he trying to hide.

She very wisely holds back the commentary that the only other man she's ever known to pack so many articles of clothing for a short trip like this is Raoul. He surely would not appreciate being compared to such - as he had called him - a slave of fashion. Her lips quirk at the mere thought.

Once on board the ship they go immediately to their room. Despite himself, Erik found the ship very interesting and saw many things he wanted to take a closer look at later on. When he had first seen the crowd of people milling about and getting ready to board, he was seized with an anxiety and shyness, swearing to stay in his room for the entire voyage. But curse whoever designed this ship - the architecture and style was just too interesting not to come back and look at. Perhaps it wouldn't be so terrible to be around people for just a little while.

Erik had not seen the ocean for at least twenty years. He stood by the window in their room and stared and stared. By the time Christine had finished unpacking both of their luggage she noticed he was still at the window. She came and stood by him, slipping her arms around his waist.

"Why don't we go sit out on one of the decks, Erik? That way we can get some fresh air as well."

He shakes his head.

"I am quite fine right here, Christine."

"Are you very sure? We could push two of those lounge chairs together and sit right by the edge and breathe in the salt air and bask in the sun and we can hold hands, and no one will take second glance at us, we'll be just like any other couple here..."

As expected, those were the magic words.

"Perhaps so..."

Sometimes Christine felt just a little guilty over being able to ply him so easily with that phrase, but she always made sure to never do so unless it truly was the best for him. Besides - she didn't almost spoil their marriage for him to stand by a window for the entire trip.

So he follows her out and they pull two chairs away from the others just a little, and push them close enough to each that when they lay down she's able to reach over and grab his hand and give it a squeeze.

"It will be alright, darling." she tells him as he pushes his hat more forward to cover as much as of his mask as he can. "There's absolutely nothing to worry about on here, nobody here knows us and no one will even take a second glance."

There's a brief moment of silence from the both of them as they look out over the vast waters.

"Why Christine! Fancy seeing you here!" a high voice calls out just a little too loudly from directly behind.

Erik flinches as Christine spins around to see.

"Meg! Good heavens!"

Meg turns her eyes to Erik, her grin getting bigger.

"Oh! And how good to see you again, Monsieur."

Erik attempts a smile but it may in fact be more of a grimace. He doesn't trust that sparkle in her eye. Christine had endlessly vouched that her friend was excellent at keeping secrets, but he can't possibly see how that could be the case when she always speaks so loudly. He feels half the boat is probably staring already, alerted by her voice to some spectacle.

As if there wasn't already enough to make Erik want to suddenly fade into nothingness, there is a man just behind Meg who is approaching and also giving a rather large and slightly unnerving smile.

"Hello, Christine." the man makes a small bow to her. "It is lovely to see you again."

"Hugo!" Christine had not seen Meg's husband in ages, but he was still just as dashing as she remembered. "I had no idea we would run into anyone we knew here!"

Meg laughs.

"That's why we're here too! A chance to get away from it all for a little while - it's gets dreadfully annoying at times, the amount of gossip that circulates."

The conversation reached a pause, with both Meg and Hugo looking expectantly at Erik.

"Oh, Hugo, this is my husband, Erik. I don't believe you've met him before. Erik, this is the Baron de Barbazac."

Erik had heard of the man but had never seen him in person before. He was tall, rather handsome, his dark hair laced through with streaks of silver, and a smile that seemed truly genuine. What stood out most to Erik, however, was the way he held eye contact as opposed to letting his eyes dart over Erik's face and examine the mask. Erik finds this surprising but pleasant.

"An honour to meet you, Baron."

"Call me Hugo, we're all friends here." he laughs.

He and Meg pull up two more chairs and Erik groans inwardly. Friends indeed.

"What brings you two here, Christine?" Meg asks.

Christine smiles.

"We are here to celebrate Erik's birthday, actually."

"How exciting! A celebration!" she claps her hands. "So you simply must come to the dance tonight!"

"What do you think, Erik?" Christine looks over at him.

He gives a small nod.

"Yes, perhaps so."

In actuality all Erik really wants to is sit somewhere in peace and quiet. Unfortunately for those plans, Meg and Hugo stay next to them for what seems an eternity, chatting about various subjects while Erik tries his best to remain polite but also silent.

Despite his best efforts to stay outside of the conversation and the fact that he dislikes meeting new people, he can't help but find the conversation... not terrible. When Hugo mentions his villa in Italy, Erik finds the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"I used to live in Rome."

"Ah, a beautiful city, is it not? The architecture there is exquisite."

Erik raises his eyebrows.

"I'm inclined to agree, seeing as how that was my career at the time."

It leads to an extended conversation about architecture that leaves both women a little confused and lost. Still, they enjoy that their husbands have found a common interest.

The brightness of Christine's smile could rival the sun reflecting off the waves. Perhaps her husband has found a friend - heaven knows the man was in short supply of those. If that were the case, then surely it would be no large feat to ask Erik to come with her on visits to Meg's home. Already plots for adventures with the four of them begin to form in her mind.

The afternoon wears on and soon it's time to prepare for dinner and then the dance later.

"What did you think of Hugo?" Christine asks him once they're in their room.

"He was... Not disagreeable."  
Erik replies.

Christine nods. That is, perhaps, the most she'll get out of him - Erik is not one to compliment people as a rule.

"You seemed to get along just fine. I think he's perfectly lovely - he's so kind to Meg, she couldn't have made a better match. And he looks so dashing with that silver in his hair."

"Oh?" Erik asks, running his hand over his wig. "Do you really think so?"

"Mm hm. Are you sure you want to go to the dance, Erik? You don't have to if you don't want to, you know."

"We might as well, we're already here. Besides, we can always leave if we find ourselves so inclined."

They attend the dance and end up staying. Christine had forgotten how good of a dancer he was, her mind going back to that masquerade at the Opera Populaire that seemed so long ago now, ages ago before she had confessed her true feelings to him. She tells herself that she must remember to ask him to set up a phonograph when they get home so that they can dance in their living room.

Halfway through the evening they run into Meg and Hugo, and when the next song starts up Hugo asks Christine for a dance. Erik watches them make their way to the dance floor, his gaze lingering on Hugo's apparently dashing hair.

Meg smiles as she watches them, keeping her gaze from landing on the man next to her. She had almost hoped, for just a moment - but no. It was alright. She can be content to sit this one out.

It's not more than a handful of moments before Erik realizes what manners would dictate he do next. He glances at Meg. She really has been so good about everything - it seemed she hadn't even told her husband anything about him beyond that he and Christine had met at the opera. He suspects that she might have a bit of crush - not on him, exactly, but on the Phantom persona he had created. It made him feel a little awkward at times because he didn't know how to react to that - the Phantom of the Opera was supposed to be a terrifying figure who wreaked havoc, not the subject of a girl's romantic fantasies. That was partly why he had revealed himself to Christine as the Angel of Music instead - surely angels were much more appealing than phantoms, and less vindictive too. But still, despite his bafflement at her inexplicable yet utterly innocent crush, he extends his hand to her and smoothly says-

"May I have this dance, Baroness?"

Her entire face lights up as she slips her hand into his.

"Of course, Monsieur!"

It ends up beings a simply lovely dance for all four of them. Christine laughs out loud when Meg catches her eye mid-twirl, flashing Christine a wide grin and removing her hand from Erik's shoulder to briefly point at him.

"It was a wonderful evening, Erik." Christine tells him later on as they arrive in their room once again. "You seemed to enjoy it, did you not?"

"I must admit, it has all gone better than I had expected."

He's already changed out of his clothing and into his pajamas and is staring out the little window once again. When Christine finishes changing she comes and stands beside him.

The vast ocean, slowly rippling in the moonlight, looks nearly black, like endless ink stretching as far as the eye can see. What once was warm and inviting, a cheery shade of blue, now looks ominous and foreboding. It makes her shiver to look at it, and Erik pulls her close to him. How strange, she thinks, that something can change so much by being plunged into darkness. She glances up at her husband and takes comfort in the fact that the opposite is also true - that what seems terrifying and cold sometimes only needs to be brought into the light to find that it's actually warm and caring.

Erik sleeps very fitfully that first night, waking every so often with a small start, not at all used to sleeping in a room that lets in moonlight and the soft sounds of the other rooms around them. Twenty years of sleeping under the ground in absolute silence and darkness was a hard habit to get out of.

The following day it rains, spoiling any hopes of spending much time outdoors, so they must content themselves with indoor activities - they join Meg and Hugo in their room and play game after game of cards to pass the time. It's decidedly less awkward than Erik had feared it would be, and he even finds he can let his guard down just enough to enjoy himself.

The weather for the rest of the trip is lovely, however, and they make the fullest use of that, leaving no activity onboard untried or view from the railing unseen.

On the last night of the voyage they silently slip from their room and make their way to the edge of the railing, looking out at the view illuminated by the full moon. Christine is dazzled by the sheer amount of stars in the sky pressing back the darkness of the night, and for a moment she feels as though she's on the edge of falling. But Erik is behind her, holding her tight. Instead of looking up at the splendor of the midnight heavens, he's gazing at the beauty of his Christine. She outshines the stars themselves, he thinks.

"Thank you, Christine." he whispers to her.

She glances back, surprised.

"What for, Erik?"

"For thinking of and planning this trip. For knowing what I need and pushing me to do it. For being so kind to me." he hesitates, suddenly feeling shy.

"For loving me. For everything." he adds softly.

He never would have come up with the idea to go on a cruise, never would have imagined it could go well with any stretch of the imagination. Had anyone else brought the idea up to him he would have dismissed it outright. But his perfect angel of a wife had thought of it, had been able to picture all the good that could come of it, and had planned the entire thing all on her own and the end result had been so wonderful - wonderful in a way that only something touched by Christine could be. She truly has to be an angel, he thinks, because she brings a bit heaven with her wherever she goes. No matter how many times his thoughts got carried away over the time they've been together, the truth remains that she has always been loyal to him, always loved him no matter what he may have feared otherwise.

Christine blushes. She isn't sure how to respond, so she instead she simply leans back against him.

"You are very welcome, Erik." she finally tries.

It somehow doesn't seem like the proper response to someone thanking you for your love, especially when considering what 'everything' in this relationship has entailed, but it's the best she can muster at the moment.

"And you will always be welcome, because I will always love you, you know. I'm glad you enjoyed your birthday." she smiles sweetly up at him.

"Christine - do you... Do you think, maybe, we could do something next year too? For my birthday, I mean?"

"Of course, Erik! I wouldn't let a single year pass that we don't. Did you really think otherwise?"

"I wasn't certain. I'm so used to not marking the occasion."

She sighs and squeezes his hand. He said the words easily enough with no trace of sorrow to them, and somehow that made it all the sadder to her. Sometimes he would say things so casually but they would pierce her with such a melancholy over what his past must have been like. To have only marked the occasion twice in what was at least forty years... And the first party when he was a small child could hardly even be counted considering how terribly it had turned out. Christine vows that she will always try her best to make up for it.

When the cruise ends it's like waking from a dream back into reality again. They say their goodbyes to Meg and Hugo with the promise of coming to visit them soon.

Christine has the entire day off after they get back. She had thought to spend the day with Erik, but he had informed her after breakfast that he had errands to run, and with a kiss brushed across her knuckles he was gone for the rest of the day.

Errands. She was always so morbidly curious what he was up to when he said that - what kind of errands could he possibly have? Even odder were the errands he'd run in daylight hours. He kept to the shadows and alleys and secret tunnels under the ground, she knew, but still she wondered what kind of business he was up to. She knew if she pressed him on the matter he would likely tell her, but she'd never done so. She could occasionally tell afterwards what some of the errands were for when a new item mysteriously appeared in their home afterwards - a rare book or a bottle of whiskey or a box of new candles. But sometimes he returned and nothing seemed different or new, and she wondered if perhaps a deal had fallen through or if he was merely putting in an order somewhere for some item or product that would arrive at a later date.

So she enjoys the solitude on her last day off before work, taking a particularly long bubble bath with a glass of wine and a good book. After that she spends a good while attempting to coax Ayesha out from under the bed, where she was sulking at having been abandoned with only Giry to feed her every day while Christine and Erik were gone. Once she lures her out with morsels of food, she takes her to the couch and brushes her long fur until Ayesha tires of the primping and jumps down from her lap. Christine then sets to work preparing a dinner to surprise Erik with. She had considered herself very good at cooking to begin with, but she had been learning so much more from helping him as he cooked and she was eager to show off her new skills.

When he enters the kitchen that evening, he isn't carrying anything to give any clue as to what his errands were. He is, however, quite surprised by the meal she has prepared for them.

"Christine, you did not have to do this."

She beams at him.

"I know, dear, but I wanted to."

It really is a lovely meal, roasted meat with a rich sauce and various vegetables on the side. She had paid careful attention to how each item was placed on the plate, a detail that does not escape his notice. He's quite proud of her and tells her so, along with enough compliments on her cooking to make her flush quite warmly.

It isn't until the following afternoon that when they're having tea in Giry's office that she notices it.

She surely would not have noticed had she been sitting on the couch next to him as she normally did, but today she was sitting in the chair directly across from the couch. Christine is telling Giry about their cruise and idly gazing over at Erik as he performs his lemon ritual into his teacup. Her eyes wander from his hands squeezing lemon after lemon into the cup, up his arms and over his broad shoulders, across his his face as he intently stares down at lemons, over his mask, his wig-

His wig.

That sleek black hair - or now, rather, that sleek black hair with thin streaks of silver.

When Christine notices it for the first time she stops mid sentence, her lips quirking into a smile. Her eyes dart over to a confused Madame Giry. Christine nods her head slightly and raises her eyebrows, trying to get her to look where she was looking. Giry becomes more confused at first, but on the second glance towards Erik he moves his head just slightly and the light catches just so and-

Giry chokes back a laugh, managing to turn it into a cough instead. What on earth had possessed him to do this, she wonders.

Christine shakes her head slowly, unable to stop smiling at the situation. She may have mentioned once - or maybe several times - how much she had liked Hugo's hair, but really! She should have known better, she supposes. Actually, she thinks to herself, she's quite lucky that all he did was order a new wig - obviously the comment had stuck with him but it seemingly hadn't sent him into an existential crisis or a moody fit as far as she could tell, which was a sign of vast improvement on his part, surely.

Erik glances up from his tea, realizing that all conversation has stopped. He sees both women staring at him with barely restrained laughter. At least they're both good enough to look away and pretend they weren't staring after he had looked up at them. Still, embarrassed color creeps over his face and he wonders if the stares and laughter were perhaps over the lemons or something else.

"Is something funny?" he frowns.

Christine clears her throat, able to tell that he's teetering closely to the verge of being hurt.

"I'm sorry, dear. It's nothing." she attempts to smooth over it.

"It's those damn lemons." Giry adds. "You know, sometimes we make bets on just how many slices you'll use."

"Madame! Don't tell him that!" Christine giggles.

Erik raises an eyebrow.

"Are you truly keeping count? Tell me, was it more or less lemon than the obscene amount of sugar in Christine's tea?"

"This again! Look what you've started, Madame!" Christine protests.

"Perhaps we'll have to start having lemonade instead of tea - then you'll both be happy." Giry offers.

"The lemon does not need any sugar to taste good. It just needs a little tea with it, that's all." Erik sniffs.

"Well I don't want any lemon in my lemonade, how about that?" Christine says.

"Christine." Erik sounds almost disgusted. "That would mean you're drinking nothing but sugar and water."

"Maybe I want to drink a cup full of sugar, Erik, did you ever think of that?"

"Unfortunately I did," he replies gravely. "I had the terrible image in my mind when I saw you putting half the sugar bowl into your tea."

The playful banter seems to have drawn him back from the edge of falling into a mood, and Christine silently breathes a sigh of relief.

They chat about various Opera House gossip that they missed while they were gone, but all the while Christine feels her eyes being drawn back to the new wig. When she had left for work in the morning he hadn't finished dressing, so she hadn't had a chance to see it then. So this was what his errand was for, then. Had he done this to please her? Because she had said it looked nice? Or was this also a part of his wish to be like everyone else, a gradual and planned appearance of aging?

Erik catches her eye on him and tilts his head, silently questioning her.

She smiles as she looks down.

"You always look so nice, Erik, you know I've always thought so. And today you look... Well, you look quite dashing today." her cheeks tint as she says the words.

"Oh?" is his only reply, but he can't hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Madame Giry bites her lip to keep from interjecting 'she means you look older' - she knows Erik well enough to know that the humor might not be taken so well, so she stays silent.

He unconsciously runs a hand over the wig and congratulates himself on a successful endeavor.


	31. Chapter 31

Erik sighs and turns the page in his book. He's trying to be patient as he waits for Christine to return from her shopping trip. Her trips usually never take this long, but he knows that sometimes she gets distracted and loses track of time. Still, it is rather late, and he hopes she'll come back soon.

Christine's hands are still shaking as she makes her way down the catacombs to her home. She's trying her best to compose herself before Erik sees her, but the task is difficult. She feels so silly - everything turned out fine, considering - but towards the end things had the potential to turn very quickly. She's still utterly shocked at the situation and her reaction.

She had been on her way back when before she knew it she was getting robbed. The presence of the small pistol had unnerved her, and she had quickly handed over her purse as requested. That was so close to being the blessed end of it, but as the man was about to leave he had suddenly caught a glimpse of her ring and demanded it as well. It was then that Christine had surprised even herself by refusing quite loudly. That had angered him, obviously, and he had grabbed it quite roughly off of her finger.

So all things considered, she had exited that situation very well - she was alive and relatively untouched except for her hand. It could have ended much worse - but that thought still brings her no comfort. Her hand hurts and she suspects it will hurt even more when the adrenaline isn't flowing as freely as it is now, she was held at gunpoint, and her ring is gone. She's still shaken from the suddenness of it, how easily it could have gone another direction. She thinks of how poor Erik would be waiting for her here with no idea of what had happened - what would he do if she never returned? She wants to cry just thinking about it.

She tries to take a steadying breath but feels no better for it. She fears Erik's reaction - not for herself, no, he'd never hurt her in any way or be angry at her for this - no, she's worried what he'll do when finds out someone has harmed his Nightingale. She was safe from his rage, but there were no guarantees for anyone else. Even so, there's nothing she wants more in this moment than to be in his presence and feel him near.

The playful remark of her tardiness dies on Erik's tongue as he looks up to see her tear stained face and trembling lip. He drops his book to the floor and jumps from his chair, rushing to her side.

"Christine! What has happened?"

His heart is pounding in chest and he berates himself for not realizing sooner that she was late because of some calamity.

He gently places his hands on her shoulders, guiding her to couch. She leans into his touch, letting him sit her down.

"It's fine, Erik, everything is fine," she tries to reassure him but if anything her wavering words have the opposite effect on him.

"Christine-" Erik is on the verge of panicking.

"There was a man with a gun and he robbed me, but really everything is fine," in that moment she isn't certain which of them she's trying to convince.

She lets him gather her in his arms.

"Are you alright? Did he harm you?"

"I'm alright, I think - I'm just so frightened! He took my purse, but Erik - he also took my ring," her voice finally breaks when she tells him so, and she lifts her left hand for him to view.

Erik was already furious that anyone would cause his wife such fright and dare to steal her belongings - but when he sees her bruised hand and now-crooked finger, his blood practically boils.

"Christine- your finger is broken!"

He tries to push down the seething rage, because that won't help Christine right now. Christine needs gentleness and a soothing voice, not his offended anger. There will be time for that later.

"Are you sure you're alright aside from your hand?"

She nods.

"I- I tried going to the police, Erik, and I gave them a description of the man, but they said they probably couldn't do anything about it. They took down my information and said they'd contact me if my things turned up, but they aren't actually going to look for them or the robber."

"It's because they are utterly incompetent, my love," he murmurs and kisses her forehead. "But do not worry about that right now - we must fix your finger so it will heal properly."

He scoops her up and carries her to the kitchen, where he places her on a chair and promptly grabs the first aid kit. When he returns he kneels beside her and deftly sets to work on fixing her finger. He distracts her from any pain by prompting her with questions - what the man looked like, where it happened, and so on.

"How does it feel?" he asks when he's finished.

"Better, thank you," she tells him appreciatively.

She still feels jumpy, but she feels much safer with him here. She reaches out for him and he pulls her into his arms once more.

He stands up with her and carries her to their room. He astutely realizes that with her bandaged hand she will have trouble removing her various layers of clothing and unlacing her corset, so he helps her to undress and to put on her nightgown. Christine knows that she could have managed it on her own with some difficulty, but there's something appealing about being fussed over and dressed by her husband as though she were a doll, especially after the day she's had, so she lets him do so. When he's finished he picks her up once more, setting her on the bed and climbing up next to her.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep a wink tonight like this," she laughs nervously.

Her hands are still shaking and she holds them out for Erik to see.

"Would you like something to help you sleep, my love?" he murmurs into her hair.

She nods.

"Will you stay with me?"

He hesitates - honesty, always.

"I will stay until you fall asleep," he kisses the side of her face.

Christine frowns.

"Why, where are you going?"

"To get your belongings back, of course."

"Oh Erik, are you sure?" she clings to him. "He was armed, it isn't safe."

"It has been many years, but I assure you I'm still quite capable in this area."

She swallows hard when the meaning behind his words sinks in.

"Erik," she whispers, her wide eyes full of concern as she looks up at him. "You aren't going to kill him, are you?"

He doesn't reply immediately and she gives a small cry.

"Please don't, Erik - please! The police won't investigate a robbery but they will most definitely investigate a murder! I can't lose you like that, Erik, I can't! They'll lock in prison, they'll execute you!"

"It's alright Christine - I didn't say I was definitely set on a particular course action..."

"Erik!" she practically sobs. "Promise me! Promise me you won't!"

"I promise, I promise you, Christine - I will spare his life," he wipes away the tears on her cheeks. "But surely you know I must defend myself if it comes to that..."

"Then promise me that you won't put yourself in a situation that requires defending yourself," she sniffs, her lip quivering.

"I shall use the utmost caution, my angel."

"Good," she sinks into his arms. "And you must be here when I wake up."

"Of course, Christine," he kisses her one more time before settling her against the pillows.

He rises, reluctant to leave her even for a few moments, and heads to the kitchen where he prepares a draught of his own recipe which will allow her a peaceful and dreamless sleep. He brings the cup back to the bedroom and hands it to her.

She doesn't drink it right away, instead waiting as he settles in next to her. He pulls her onto his lap and begins to sing softly to her. She sighs and drinks the medicine down, letting him take the cup when she's finished and setting it on the nightstand. She lets her head rest on his chest, her eyes slipping closed as she feels his hand running up and down her shoulder and arm, soothing her. His other arm is around her waist, his broad hand splayed across her ribs. She feels completely enveloped by him, completely and finally safe. Slowly she drifts off into slumber.

When he's certain she has fallen asleep he lets his song trail off. He knows he should be on his way, should be hunting down the vile scoundrel who dared to terrorize his precious angel, but he finds it difficult to have leave her here alone. She is safe, nothing here can harm her, he knows this, but he prefers to be near her regardless. He lingers for a while longer, remembering her wish for him to stay with her as he continues his soft touches, brushing her hair away from her face. At last he gently lowers her to the pillows and presses one last kiss to her forehead. He must be going.

When Erik steps outside, away from the presence of his wife, all remnants of tenderness fall away. It's almost frighteningly easy to fall back into the role of Angel of Death - but no, not exactly, he had promised Christine after all... And of course he'd promised Nadir as well, but his vow to his wife held far more importance to him. Perhaps not the Angel of Death, but an avenging Angel all the same.

It isn't terribly hard to track down the man, though it does take a few hours to find the trail he's left behind. He takes notice of a man who matches the description given by Christine, a man who is clutching a small velvet purse that Erik doesn't recognize, and so he silently follows him. By the small hours of the morning he's found the hovel that's being used as his hiding place. When he finally feels that man is likely asleep, he creeps inside silently, and sure enough he sees Christine's purse in the corner, along with a number of other women's handbags. Erik narrows his eyes at this, wondering how many other women this fiend has accosted. The man is asleep on a small cot, and Erik stops his search of the room for a few moments to observe him with contempt. His hand twitches out of habit, the old thin red rope coiled tightly in his sleeve. How easy it would be, Erik thinks. But even now he finds, even in the midst of the cold fury, he feels no real bloodlust. He will keep his word to his angel, to the Daroga, and to himself.

Still, he finds the man reprehensible. Erik had done more than his share of pickpocketing back in his day, but that was entirely different, he tells himself. What Erik did had required finesse, skill, and cunning. Any brute could point a gun in someone's face and inelegantly demand their belongings, but when Erik had robbed, why - they didn't even know it was happening! There was no harm done, no terrified women crying their eyes out... Just appropriated funds. That surely separated him from the likes of this clown on the cot in the corner. An unbidden thought arises in his mind and makes him uneasy - the thought that perhaps Christine would look down upon stealing of all kinds regardless, but Erik does not like this thought at all and pushes it back down again. His pickpocketing days are long behind him, anyway.

With every other hiding place coming up empty, Erik realizes it must be in that wooden box by the man's bed. He sighs silently and approaches him, putting his foot carefully on the gun that the man had foolishly stowed on the floor by the bed. With a swift movement, Erik sends the gun across the room out of either of their reach. At the same time he grabs the man roughly by the shoulder and flips him over, then sinking a bruising grip into his arm.

"Is Monsieur such a coward that he must steal from women at gunpoint?" Erik tuts at him.

The man yelps and tries to free himself from Erik's grasp, but the hold only gets tighter and more painful.

"Where is the jewelry, Monsieur? In the box?" Erik nods to the box on the other side of the bed.

The man is spitting insults at him but they die on his tongue as Erik twists his arm just so. He finally tells him that yes, the jewelry is in the box and that he can have it if he just lets go.

"Open it," Erik commands him.

The man reaches over and opens the box, revealing a number of rings and bracelets and necklaces. Christine's ring is surely in there somewhere.

"Ah, very good. I'll just be taking all of these and I'll be on my way."

He releases the man's arm and in an instant the man is reaching down where the gun used to be.

Erik mirrors his movement, reaching down and grabbing one of his hands in both of his.

"Why Monsieur, I thought you said I could take the items and leave if I let you go? Are you one to go back on your word so easily?"

There's seemingly no around to hear the scream that follows, but if there is, it's cause is not investigated.

On his way back he stops by the police station, leaving the extra purses and jewelry on their doorstep before knocking on the door quite loudly. He quickly walks on, Christine's purse tucked under his arm and her ring on his finger. He's far out of sight by the time a very puzzled police officer opens the door to find the stolen loot deposited there. The officer brings the items inside, and as he's setting them down on his desk he realizes that several match the description of bags that had been reported stolen. He scratches his head and pulls out the stack papers where the reports were recorded. He will have a number of women to contact in the morning, but he's still baffled at how it came about.

Erik is suddenly tired as he crosses the underground lake. His task complete and the danger gone, the adrenaline ebbs in his veins and now all he wants to do is to curl up next to his Christine. He disembarks from the small boat and before he leaves the lake behind he slips the appropriated gun into the water and lets it sink to the bottom.

He stops in the doorway of the bedroom first thing, making sure that she's okay. She's still deeply asleep, and he longs to join her, but he's also acutely aware that due to his night's exploits he smells quite strongly of dirty alleyway and stale hay and trashy hovel. He needs to wash up first, and he can tell she'll likely sleep for a while longer anyway so he takes his time in doing so.

By the time he's finished cleaning, the sun is just beginning to illuminate the edges of the sky, although down here no one would have a way of knowing that.

Dressed in fresh clothes, his mask and wig firmly back in place - she's had a very trying time, and he doesn't want to frighten her when she wakes - he stands in the doorway a moment before whispering her name. He approaches to bed, calling her softly once more. She shifts, slowly coming to surface of wakefulness. He carefully gets into bed next to her, placing a hand on her waist and nuzzles his face against the crook of her neck.

"Christine... My dear... Wake up, I have something for you."

She blinks her eyes open, trying to make her way through the haze of her mind. She tries to remember the previous night - had she been worried about something? But how could she have any worries when Erik was here calling her so softly and kissing her so sweetly? She smiles, hoping to always be able to wake up in such a way.

"Give me your hand, love," he asks her.

She reaches her injured hand out.

"Your other hand, darling."

She frowns in concentration, her muddled mind trying to make sense of his request. Surely one hand is as good as the other...? But she holds the other hand up all the same.

With her left hand wrapped and bound, he can't very well put her ring on that one, so they'll have to settle with the right hand for now. He takes the ring off his own finger and slides it on to hers, her eyes opening wide as she feels the thin metal against her skin. The haze recedes and yesterday's memories begin to come back in a rush.

"Oh, Erik-" she breathes as she rolls onto her back and examines her hand.

Catching the candlelight in the room, the ring twinkles at her from the fourth finger on her right hand.

"You got it back. You are a wonder, Erik."

And she pulls him to her, sliding her hand under his mask and pulling it off of his face so she can pepper kisses to his malformed jaw and cheek.

"But what about you, are you alright? Did he fight you?" she turns serious.

He shakes his head.

"I am just fine, Christine. I got your purse back as well."

She hesitates before asking her next question, not entirely wanting to know the answer but knowing that her conscience would pull at her until she couldn't take it anymore.

"A-and the man? Did you...?"

"I gave you my word, Christine - the man is alive," he brushes a stray curl away from her face.

He did indeed keep word, for all Christine had asked of him was to not kill him. She had made no other request, no other set parameters he needed to abide by - if the man just so happened to have had all of his fingers broken, well, Christine did not need to know that because she did not ask about that, now did she? He was alive regardless and Erik had kept his word, that was all that mattered.

"Thank you, Erik."

Christine nestles closer to his chest, her head just under his chin. Erik sighs and holds her tightly, as they lay there in silence for a while, he lets his mind wander over the whole ordeal now that it's over. Inwardly, he's still shaken by the idea of how easily her run-in with the man could have turned wrong, of how it could happen to her again, of how next time they might something other than money, of how he could have sat in his chair waiting and waiting only for her to never come back at all. Perhaps it would be safer, wiser for him to accompany her on more of her outings. If not side by side with her, he could at least follow her in the shadows and keep a watchful eye over her. What on earth had possessed her to talk back when a gun was pointed in her face?!

He pulls back from her slightly, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing it and shaking her gently.

"Don't ever do that again - if someone has you at the end of a weapon and wants your jewelry, just give it to them."

She looks up at him sheepishly.

"I know, Erik. I really should have, it's just... I guess I wasn't thinking, is all. I didn't mind terribly about my purse, and if it had been any other ring..."

"But I got it back for you. And even if I couldn't, I could just buy you new one," he frowns.

"But this one has memories with it, Erik. It wouldn't be quite the same with a new one."

Erik is torn - on one hand, her insistence about how special she thinks the ring is because he gave it to her is touching and precious, but on the other hand...

He gathers her closely to him once again.

"Erik can always buy Christine a new ring, but he cannot ever find another Christine if anything were to happen to her," he tells her softly, afraid that she doesn't quite realize how frightening he found her attempt at keeping the ring from being stolen.

"Oh, Erik," she whispers as she presses her forehead to his collarbone. "I know. Heaven forbid it should happen again, but if it does, I promise I'll hand over any item he wants."

He nods at this.

"Good, good. You must always return to your Erik. He- he can't get along without you, you see," he gives an attempt at a half smile.

"Well then you won't have to get along without me, darling. I'll be extra careful," she reaches her good hand up to caress the side of his face.

"Perhaps- perhaps Erik could accompany you on your next outing."

"Oh - I would quite like that, Erik," Christine smiles.

They had gone on several more walks since the first one when they thought they were followed, some short and some longer, but he had never gone with her on a shopping trip - yet. She found she was quite looking forward to the idea, and not just because she felt slightly nervous about getting mugged again. So often she'd find little odds and ends that she wished she could point out to him or to ask his opinion on a piece of clothing or food.

How wonderful it will be, she thought to herself. She only wishes that the idea had not been prompted from such an encounter, but the happy plans she's beginning to form in her mind certainly do help to push away the events of the previous day.

They are both silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Erik tries to remain vigilant, fighting against the heaviness in his eyes, but it has been a long and stressful day and he knows that nothing down here will hurt her, especially not when she's safe in his arms, and finally sleep wins out and he's pulled under its tow.

Christine lays awake as he dozes, not tired despite the early hour on account of the deepness of her earlier slumber. She listens to his steady breathing and relishes how tightly he still holds her even while sleeping. Her left hand, cradled to her chest to keep from accidentally laying on it, has begun to radiate a dull ache punctuated by a sharp pain with any movement. She makes a mental note to tell Erik of this when he awakens again - perhaps he can make something to take that pain away - but for now she lets him rest. She's terribly thankful that he managed to find her ring again, but even more thankful he managed to return unscathed. She presses a soft kiss to side of his jaw and sighs.


	32. Chapter 32

The first time Erik goes shopping with her, he lurks in the shadows of the alleys and refuses to let the sunlight touch him any more than it has to. She rolls her eyes when she realizes that this is why he had wanted to go to the open air market with her, so he could lurk instead of walk beside her like a normal person.

She must admit, however, that he's quite good at lurking. She only notices him several times, and only because she knows what she's looking for - although once she stood at near the booth selling fresh fruit and strained her eyes down the alley behind it trying for nearly fifteen minutes to discern if the shape by the wall was her husband or a garbage bin. She eventually gave up and ended up walking away with far more fruit than she had originally intended on buying.

Once she paused near the alley entrance and was startled half to death by the cold hand suddenly in her shoulder - only to turn with the intent of striking the assailant in the face to find one green eye and one blue eye peering back at her.

"Erik," she breathes, thanking her lucky stars that she hadn't punched him. "What's wrong?"

He gestures across at a man on the other side of the street.

"I don't like the look of that man, Christine."

She looks towards the man, who's wearing a straw boating hat and has a newspaper folded under his arm.

"Why? What's wrong with him?" Christine is confused.

Erik narrows his eyes.

"I just don't like him," he hisses.

Christine is now baffled as to whether it's due to some innate sense that Erik has - is this man secretly up to no good? - or if it's simply a matter of personal taste that's been offended. Nevertheless, she humors him.

"Alright, I'll make sure to avoid him."

He sinks back into the darkness and she continues on with her shopping, feeling very silly. It's not exactly what she had been dreaming of when he had mentioned going shopping with her.

She tells him as much when they arrive home, and through much coaxing and flattery and a well planned pout, she manages to convince him that it would not be too awful if he were to actually walk through the markets like normal person, though he still insists that he should not be seen near her.

"Christine, what if people see?"

And he places such a pleading emphasis on the word 'see' that it wrenches her heart to think that he's still worried about what people will think of her if she's seen with someone like him, even when she's told him over and over that it does not matter to her.

But he can never say no when she frowns like that, biting her lip and fluttering her eyelashes and placing a hand on his chest, and so they both settle on their compromise.

The next time they go shopping, he stays a dozen paces behind her, pretending he isn't with her. Every so often she glances back at him out of sheer habit, and when she does so he pointedly avoids looking at her. She feels he's being absolutely ridiculous over the whole thing, and, upon passing a certain vendor's cart that makes her eyes glean with mischief, she counts to fifteen and suddenly stops to turn back towards Erik.

Erik turns and pretends to be suddenly interested in the items being sold there, as she knew he would do to keep the distance between them. He looks at them with feigned interest, and then, suddenly realizing what they are, confusion and vague fear. His eyes slide over to finally - finally - look at Christine, who smiles sweetly at him and nods, glancing back at the items herself. He breaks out in a cold sweat as he looks back at the vendor's items.

Baby clothes and toys for infants.

He dares to look back at Christine one more time. She can't help but snicker at how wide his eyes are, and how they go from looking at her face to her midsection with barely restrained horror.

"Are you looking for something in particular, Monsieur?" the kindly woman behind the vendor table asks.

Erik jumps, startled out of his dark and spiraling thoughts.

"No!" his voice sounds strange to own ears, far too high. "No, thank you, mademoiselle, I was just l-looking, that's- that's all."

He certainly hopes that's all.

Christine raises an eyebrow at him and continues on down he street.

When she glances back in a few moments, he's definitely watching her now, his act of nonchalance entirely forgotten. He's fidgeting with his hands and rubbing his neck and he looks rather pale, even for him.

Minutes tick by until he cannot stand it any longer. He quickens his pace and she suddenly finds him mere inches behind her.

"Christine!" he hisses in a strangled whisper. "Are you- are you-?"

She looks up at him, the picture of innocence.

"Am I what, Erik?"

He swallows and licks his lips, glancing around anxiously.

"Is there something you would like to tell me, Christine? Something that I should know?" he gestures his hand in a vaguely accusatory point at her abdomen.

"Well, yes, there is," her smile brightens.

She glances around the marketplace before leaning in close to him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. His shoulders tense up.

"I wanted to tell you, Erik, how good it is to have you here by my side. And no one is even taking a second glance at us, look," she whispers warmly in his ear.

His brows knit in confusion, and she stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"Now, since you're already here, we might as well finish our trip together, don't you agree?"

She begins to walk once more, firmly leading him by the hand. He follows docilely, his mind trying to work out what exactly had just happened. It takes him a moment to realize that his dear wife, had, in fact tricked him, but the relief he feels far exceeds any annoyance - and besides, she was quite correct that no one had bothered to give a second glance to them so far.

All of their trips from that point on are taken side by side. Erik does not always go with her - sometimes he is otherwise busy or Christine wants a little time to herself, and anyway there has been a rather curious drop in local crime lately. Christine mentions this little fact that she overheard to her husband, who merely replied with an "Oh?" and a small shrug. She doesn't press him for details of what he said - or did - to the thief that he had accosted, but she feels distinctly certain that that incident was directly related to the latest statistics.

But there are many times that they do go shopping together.

Despite Christine's original insistence that no one would stare, Erik does in fact notice the occasional lingering glance in their direction and no matter how quickly that glance turns away it never ceases to make him uncomfortable. Christine eventually becomes used to the meaning of his hand placed pleadingly on her shoulder or a small tug on her sleeve or skirt - someone is staring and Erik wishes to move on. It pulls her from her thoughts of what she's purchasing, and she'll glance with concern at Erik, who will invariably be looking at the ground and frowning, a ghost of shame written across his face. She'll then quickly look around for the perpetrator of this, the person who dared to make her husband feel self conscious, and upon finding them will direct a withering stare of her own in their direction before grabbing Erik's hand and stalking off away from prying eyes and curious glances.

She feels one of the tugs at her sleeve as she's absorbed in looking at kitchen towels. She had been done apprehension about the state of their kitchen towels for some time now, and had finally brought up it to him the previous night.

He had merely looked at her, baffled.

"They are towels, Christine, it is normal for them to have rips and stains even when clean, especially if they're for the kitchen," he had told her.

"Erik, they're disgusting. I can't stand to look at them anymore."

"And you are aware, my dear, that the new towels will simply acquire their own stains and tears? What will you do then?"

"Buy new ones again," was her retort, and she had made a noise that, had it been anyone else making it, Erik would have classified as a snort.

He had sat there, utterly bemused, both at her reckless attitude towards how often they would have to buy towels and at the awful noise that he wished he never knew she was capable of making.

At that, he had said nothing more and didn't complain when she announced the next day that they would be towel shopping. If nothing else, he thought, perhaps the new towels would keep her from ever making that noise or anything close to it again.

He had also agreed to let her pick them out, which is why she was so lost in thought trying to decide between robin's egg blue and butter yellow. She glanced up at the feel of her sleeve being pulled. A cursory look around the aisle proved there was no one there but her and Erik. Perhaps the gawker had already left. She turned back to the towels. Mint green was also a worthy option, she frowned. She almost wished Erik hadn't abdicated the entire task to her.

Another tug. She looks up again. Still no one. She narrows her eyes and goes back to the towels. She had always had a fondness for lilac, too, and of course tea rose was lovely. Would Erik mind pink towels in the kitchen? Well, he shouldn't have let her pick them if he did.

He graduates to wrapping his hand around her elbow.

"Christine," he whines softly.

"Wha- Erik, there's no one there-"

She looks down for the first time and notices a very small child, a little boy barely old enough to walk, standing at the end of the aisle and staring with wide eyes at both of them. One tiny hand was gripping a shabby stuffed animal and the other was half stuck in his mouth which was dripping with drool. The child's guardian was just around the corner of the aisle, just barely out of view.

Christine watches the child for a moment before turning to Erik, incredulous.

"Are you serious?" she asks him in a hushed tone. "Erik, I don't think that child can even form a truly coherent thought, I'm certain he's not... Thinking bad things about you."

"Then why is he staring?" Erik grumbles.

"He's just a baby," she gestures at the child. "Babies stare, that's just what they do."

She frowns at Erik, who was still fidgeting under the gaze of the small child. She realizes for the first time that perhaps Erik had never been around children of that age, at least not for very long.

"We're almost done, anyway. Which of these colors do you think looks better?"

It was Erik's turn to frown.

"Why not white?"

Christine sighs at his response and continues to compare the colors next to each other. Peach, she couldn't leave peach out of the equation either. White. How silly of him.

Erik continues to fret and eventually moves to stand of the other side of Christine, hoping perhaps that she would block him from view, despite his being taller than her. Christine would admit that the child's unblinking stare is somewhat unnerving, but they truly do need towels so she lingers a little longer before throwing her hands up in defeat.

Erik does not mind that they end up buying one of each color (except, of course, for white) - anything to escape the vicinity of that awful child.

For the most part, however, the stares received are minimal, and to the great relief of both of them, no one makes mention of Erik or his mask.

Erik finds he enjoys the trips more than he thought that he would. After a while he finds that instead of constantly keeping an eye out for would-be muggers he can relax and finds himself rather interested in the shopping itself.

He will admit that he does have a particular fondness for helping pick out clothing for Christine, even if she did tend to take longer than was strictly necessary when shopping for such items - after all, how could he be upset when he got to see her try on dress after dress when she made such a pretty picture in each one?

And she was equally as patient with him when he would find something that absorbed his interest as well - even when he stopped in front of a large display of admirable knives of all types and sorts with a rather unwholesome gleam in his eye.

He had stood there studying each one for an almost worrisome amount of time, and it had prompted her to ask - against her better judgment - what precisely he was going to do with such items.

"You have many knives at home already, darling. What do you need more for?" she had not entirely succeeded in erasing the nervousness from her voice.

Erik had looked up from the display case, his face a study in seriousness.

"Just in case, Christine," he told her in a grave voice.

At that point she had entirely lost her nerve to ask what that even meant, instead replying with a weak "Oh, I see."

It wasn't until they had been on a fair number of such trips out that Erik came across something of great interest to him.

Christine had paused to look at the flower cart, full of colorful blooms when suddenly she felt Erik lean close to her and whisper in her ear.

"Christine, look at that man, that one over there."

She looks in the direction that he gestures, the direction he's staring intently.

There's a man who seems to be going about his own business, nothing too out of the ordinary- except for the mask he's wearing. It covers part of his jaw and the side of his face.

Christine takes this in for a moment before looking at Erik, who's fiercely studying the man.

"Erik," she says crisply. "It is rude to stare, I know that you know this."

He rolls his eyes.

"But just look at him, Christine."

"Yes, I know, love," she discretely glances at the man again. "He was probably injured in the war."

"The war..." Erik trails off, still staring.

He reaches up and places a hand on the masked side of his own face.

"Do you think," he hesitates. "Do you think people will think that about me, too?"

Erik's face is hopeful as she considers it.

"I suppose they would," she finally says.

Erik hums at this and says nothing more on the subject, but he's in a thoughtful mood for the rest of the trip.

After that incident, he's a little more eager to go out on trips, a little less hesitant when given the opportunity to go outside.

She enjoys watching him get distracted by the many different wares for sale. She wonders how long it has been that he shopped like this - if he ever shopped like this - before she came. He seems so terribly... Normal, as he helps pick produce or inquires the price of a certain cut of meat. She takes pride in knowing that on such occasions he's forgotten himself, forgotten his near constant worries over so many things. There are more times, however, that he leaves the talking entirely up to her, preferring to stand behind her and duck his head so as to hide as much of his face as he can, but even the small handful of times that he speaks is far better than none, she thinks.

He loves being able to spend time around her up here, getting to see yet another side of his dear Christine. She stops to look at items he never would have thought she'd enjoy, learns new things about what she likes and doesn't like. It's a wonder to watch her do even the simplest of tasks, like pick through the barrel of apples for ones without any bruises, or fish for a coin out of her purse to give to the little beggar child who resides on the street corner.

There's many things to enjoy about their shopping trips, yes, but it's difficult for either of them to rank those reasons higher than the simple pleasure of being able to walk hand in hand out in the fresh air and sunshine, together on a shared mission.


	33. Chapter 33

Christine has had a longer day at work than normal, so Erik is there to meet her in the office when her shift is over. Even though he saw her just earlier that morning, he misses her. Still, when he eyes the bag she's carrying as she enters the office, he knows nothing good is about to happen.

"Erik," she says breathlessly, smiling at him. "Guess what I volunteered us for!"

He says nothing, warily regarding the knitting needles he can see sticking out of the top of the bag on her arm.

"There's a charity drive being held by the orphanage, they need warm things for the children, and I signed up to donate thirty scarves - you'll do fifteen, and I'll do fifteen!"

She thrusts the bag out to him and doesn't seem to notice as the light in his eyes starts to die.

"We- we can buy them scarves, Christine," he tries, but she isn't having it.

"Erik, no! That's not the same at all," her smile fades. "These children don't have anyone to take care of them, to look out for them... It will mean so much to them to know that someone took the time to actually make them a gift, a gift with loved stitched right in to it!"

Erik sighs. He can tell there's no way out of this one now that her mind is made up.

"Of course, my dear."

She smiles brightly, either ignoring or simply not noticing his resigned tone, and takes his arm as they go through the door in the bookcase.

"Oh, I'm so excited, Erik! We can start tonight after dinner!"

Erik takes his time eating dinner and wonders if Christine has always eaten so quickly or she's merely in a rush to get started on the scarves. He worries for a moment that she might actually choke - surely his angel used to chew her food more throughly than this? She finishes well before he does and he waves her off with a soft smile, telling her not to worry about the dishes.

Erik also takes his time as he washes the dishes, taking extra care to rinse and dry them just so. Finally he has run out of excuses to linger in the kitchen.

He enters the living room and sees Christine already settled in one of the plush chairs, Ayesha curled in her lap, and a decent amount of scarf already hanging from her needle.

"Pick your yarn out of the bag, love," she nods to the bag next to his chair.

Christine is working with a pale green color, and after search through the various balls of yarn in the bag he pulled out a fiery red that looks most appealing. He grabs two needles out of the bag and settles into the chair, apprehensive.

He pauses to watch Christine.

Her stitches are nearly flying from one needle to other, the scarf getting longer before his very eyes. His heart twists with love and something else. His wife is so talented at this - he never knew that she knew how to do this. How could he have known her for twenty years and yet not known that she could knit? What other surprises does she hold? He looks down at the needles in his hand and fidgets with them, finally taking a piece of the yarn and tying it around one needle.

He moves the knot of yarn down the needle as though counting out the number of stitches he'll need to cast on, runs the rest of the yarn through his fingers and loops it around a few times in an imitation of Christine, hoping she isn't watching him too closely. He finally sets the yarn and needles down, frowning.

"Christine."

She looks up quickly, stopping her work. That small voice isn't like him.

"Do you mind terribly if I just went to bed? I do not feel well."

It's not a lie, not exactly, but he avoids meeting her gaze all the same.

"Oh Erik," she coos. "You don't have to ask my permission, it's alright. Get some rest, I'll be in in just a little bit, okay?"

He nods and rises, still avoiding her concerned gaze.

He's nearly asleep when she enters the room not more than an hour later. He glances back at her as she approaches the bed.

"Are you feeling any better?" she asks softly.

"A little."

She wraps her arms around him, pressing herself against his back.

"Good, I'm glad. Sleep in tomorrow, and take it easy. I don't want you making yourself worse."

"You should not worry for me, Christine," he says quietly.

Guilt presses down on him and he knows he's being silly over this and he should just come out and tell her - but he can't bring himself to form those shameful words.

"I do worry for you, Erik - I love you, how can I not worry? But I'm sure you'll feel better after you rest - in fact, you can spend the entire day knitting by the fire, and then I'll come back and cook you dinner, how does that sound?"

Erik is silent, and Christine assumes he's already fallen asleep.

But when Christine returns from work Erik is already preparing dinner for them. She enters the kitchen looking confused.

"Erik dear, I said I could cook tonight if you wanted me to."

He pauses stirring the sautéed spinach and looks at her.

"It's quite alright, Christine, I'm feeling much better, and you shouldn't have to cook after working all day."

And it really was a lovely meal he had prepared for them. She's so focused on the flavors that she almost forgets to ask.

"Did you make very much progress on your scarves?"

He freezes, staring down at his plate.

"Erik?" she prompts.

He finally looks up.

"I forgot," is his only reply.

He immediately regrets it, because not only does it put off getting over with the terrible conversation that's looming ominously in the distance, it also causes That Look to cross her face.

He hates That Look and all it implies.

Her eyebrows raise and her brow furrows, a sadness creeping in around her eyes as her lips draw together in a pout and turn down at the edges before trying to disguise themselves and rearrange as a polite smile, and her head tips just so, and her hand raises to either her cheek or her chest (depending on whether the emotion she's feeling is more likely to result in unshed tears or a painful twist in her heart).

It's a look that says, plain as day, "my poor, decrepit husband's mind is going, he can barely get along in his advanced age and I must try my best to humor him in his few remaining days", and it bothers him to no end.

He doesn't receive The Look very often, but there are times he'll say or do something that inspires it to take shape, such as when he got up from a particularly long composing session at the organ, and upon seeing Christine at home had asked her if it was still yesterday or if it were already tomorrow. She hadn't replied, just sighed out an "oh, Erik," and placed her hand on her cheek as she looked at him in his confused and rumpled state. It never fails to make him uncomfortable, even if it occurs over something small like the time he stood up too quickly and heard a popping in his back - That Look had appeared once again as he winced and placed his hands on his lumbar, her hand fluttering to her chest as her face betrayed the thought of "his frail elderly body is giving out on him, it won't be long now until he fades away into nothing".

He flinches under That Look now, and stabs his fork into the food and he drops her gaze.

"I was very busy, that is why I forgot."

"Oh, I see," her face relaxes marginally and she attempts to make conversation. "What were you busy with, then?"

He freezes once more, trying to think of an excuse and evidently he takes too long to do so, because now her hand is being clutched over her heart and That Look is back in full force.

Damnation. He somehow managed to make it even worse.

Christine, for her part, isn't even aware of That Look or the fact that she's currently giving it to him. She is, however, just slightly worried that perhaps he's not feeling as well as he thought, considering that he can't even remember what he did all day. The poor dear. She must remember to be extra tender with him. Maybe she should have cooked dinner after all, he can be so stubborn at times. She sighs sadly and more audibly than she realizes.

"I'm alright, Christine, really," he frowns as he tries to convince her.

She gets up from her chair and crosses over to him, hugging him. In her haste to embrace him she hadn't even bothered to stoop down to match their heights, so he finds his head is being cradled to her bosom. If this is a potential result of That Look, perhaps it isn't as terrible as he originally thought.

"My poor unhappy Erik," she whispers to him.

Poor unhappy Erik indeed. He brings his hands up to rest on her hips.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, Christine, really."

When she pulls away at last, she helps him clear away the dishes and afterwards she insists her rest on the couch with his feet up. She settles herself on the soft rug in front of the couch, leaning back against the seat of the couch and stretching her legs out to warm her bare feet by the fire. From this angle Erik is able to let one hand easily caress her soft curls, and Christine humors him in this as his fingers idly twist the long locks between them. Were it not for the mocking clack of the needles against each other, he would consider it a supremely peaceful evening.

She doesn't mention anything further about the knitting that night or the next day, and by then any concerns of hers over a mystery illness are forgotten.

He manages to direct a flow of conversation the following night that keeps her distracted from anything to do with scarves, an almost foolproof plan of his - until as they're getting ready for bed she suddenly exclaims about the forgotten projects.

"Oh! Erik, we simply must work on the scarves tomorrow."

He quickly turns away from her so that she won't see his face fall. His plan was so close to succeeding.

"Just think," she cuddles up close to him while he remains still, staring up at the ceiling. "Those poor little orphans will have something to help keep them warm, and every time they wear it they'll be reminded that someone was thinking of them and cared about them."

Damn those orphans, Erik fumes to himself. As annoyed as he is, though, he can't remain too upset. After all, it's not those pathetic children's fault he remains hopelessly unable to knit. And the way Christine sighs over her thoughts of them and her concern over whether they know that anyone cares about them... Perhaps she's thinking of herself as a young child, crying for her papa and all alone in the world. Perhaps she's thinking of him, with no one to even cry over losing because no one had truly cared about him. No, he can't be peeved at all when he thinks of it in those terms.

But still, that does nothing to lessen the awkwardness of the emotions the next evening when Christine confronts him over it.

They both sit near the fire, Ayesha between the two of them and purring quite loudly, oblivious to everything going on.

Christine is finishing her third scarf, and Erik is reading a book and pointedly not knitting.

"Erik," she inquires evenly. "Do you not want the orphans to stay warm?"

Erik stops reading. How the devil is he supposed to answer that question?

"Of- of course, Christine-"

"I'm sorry I volunteered you for this project without asking you first, but I had thought that you would enjoy working on something together with me. Is that not the case?"

She feels a twinge of guilt at making her questions so manipulative, but she feels rather hurt at his staunch and continued refusal to help her with a project that's clearly for a good cause.

"C-Christine! No, it's not like that at all!"

"Well then what is it, Erik? Why won't you knit with me?" she frowns down at her dark blue scarf on the needles.

He's let this drag on for far too long. He swallows hard as he leaves his chair and falls to his knees in front of her, his face hidden in her lap and his hands twisting in her many layers of voluminous skirts. He had only meant to protect his own pride, his own ego - he had never intended for her to feel scorned by him, never.

"Christine," his voice is muffled and sad. "It is because I do not know how."

The silence, broken only by Ayesha's contented purrs, seems to stretch forever.

Christine places a gentle hand over his head, still not entirely understanding the situation.

"You- what?"

He lifts his face off of her skirts just slightly.

"I do not know how to knit, Christine," he says hoarsely.

His hands tremble just slightly and he dares to look up at her face. Her face shows the warring emotions of utter bafflement and odd amusement, as though she can't bring herself to take his confession seriously.

Did he really not know how to knit? She knew for a fact that he had been the one to tailor all of his fine clothing, that he could sew with great skill. In fact there was hardly anything she would have thought would be outside of his skills - he was highly talented at practically everything she could think of. Well, perhaps his handwriting could use some improvement... His notes and letters, when he found it absolutely necessary to write words down on a paper, still held the look of a young child who hadn't quite mastered the alphabet. But for anything else...

"Do you really not know how to knit, Erik?" she asks gently and strokes her hand over his wig.

He nods.

She bites back the small laugh that threatens to burst forth.

"I can show you how to knit, darling, it's okay."

He sniffs deeply against the tears that foolishly prickle the corner of his eyes and sits upright.

"You do not understand, Christine. It is not just that I do not know how, but I am incapable of learning how as well."

There. The secret is out. The Phantom, in all his dizzying intellect and genius, was bested by a ball of yarn and two thin pieces of metal. He avoids her eye like a scolded child, his hands still gripping the fabric of her skirts.

She scoffs at this.

"Erik, that's impossible. Here, bring your yarn and needles over, we can work on it together," she coaxes.

He reluctantly retrieves them and once again sits by her feet. His poor, sweet, naive Christine.

She shows him over and over again, very slowly, with lots of explanation, how the yarn must twist around his fingers and thumb and where the needle must go through to cast on the loops that will make the end of the scarf. A scarf! Literally the easiest project one could do! But each time the yarn seems to slip across to the wrong place, or the loop comes undone, and it doesn't work out. How is it even possible? She's seen him tie knots with efficiency, she knows about his Lasso, how can this simple movement that she's done since she was a small child possibly evade him like this? Perhaps it is her teaching. She tries to explain it another way, and then another. She shows him with her own needles at a snails pace, but still - still - he cannot grasp it.

She is reduced to taking his hands in her own and physically moving them herself to get the yarn to where it needs to go. At this, he manages to cast a single stitch onto the needle. She breathes a deep sigh of relief as he stares at the needles in wonder.

"Now just do that again, the very same thing you just did."

He bites his lip and attempts the same movement he had just completed. But a finger moves, and the yarn slips and he looks up at her with unrestrained horror in his eyes. This is almost as bad as his handwriting lessons as a boy. Perhaps this is a fitting punishment for not admitting the truth to her when she first handed the bag of yarns.

She reaches down and moves his hands back into the correct position, and he manages to cast on a second stitch. It becomes painfully obvious after twenty stitches, however, that he's only able to manage if she's doing most of the work herself.

"Christine," he begins. "I do think this truly counts knitting if you must move my hands for me."

She pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut.

"It's just casting on that you're having trouble with. Lets try some actual stitches and we can see how that goes."

Erik thought for certain that nothing in the world of knitting could be more difficult than what they had just gotten through. Surely this would be the easy part - after all, he had never gotten this far before. Erik was wrong. Now there are dropped stitches to worry about, the difference between a purl and a knit, and that damned loop of yarn around his thumb that refused to stay put. One overly vigorous stitch later and suddenly three more stitches unraveled. Erik looks up at Christine with the blank fear of a person who knows that they have, for lack of a better word, fucked up.

She smiles wearily and ends the knitting lesson.

Erik had to admit that Christine was an excellent teacher, even if he could not truly make use of her instruction. He liked to think that just perhaps all those many years of him tutoring her had something to do with that, but he knew without a doubt that if he were in her place he would have snapped far earlier in the lesson. No, Christine was an excellent teacher because Christine was an excellent person, he told himself. Her patience and goodness was certainly nothing she had learned from him.

"I think that's enough knitting for tonight, Erik."

She takes the needles away from him.

"I think that's enough knitting for the rest of my life," he tells her seriously.

She pauses before answering slowly.

"I think, dear, that you might be right."

And then she levels a new Look at him, one she's never given him before, and Erik distinctly reads the words written across this look, words which say, "my idiot husband is hopelessly incompetent in this endeavor and I must pretend that he is not so that his fragile psyche isn't shattered by the blow of being so horrifically terrible at a simple task".

Perhaps that is not exactly what's going through her mind - perhaps Erik is off about the meanings of all of her Looks. He knows, in the back of his mind, that perhaps he is reading a meaning that really isn't there, but nonetheless he withers under that perceived gaze.

He is so terribly unused to the feeling of not being good at something, so unused to not being able to pick up a skill and excel at it. It makes him feel small and unworthy and he wonders if this is what other people feel like when they aren't good at something, and he wonders how they manage to get through life if so because there are very many things that very many people are not good at. Does Christine ever feel like this? He swallows hard. Has he ever caused her to feel like this? During a singing lesson on a day when he had little patience and she was struggling and he snapped at her, or reproached her with a little more sternness than was called for? Heaven knows he's often lacked patience over the years. He hopes that she's never had to feel this way due to an offhand comment of his.

They both sit there a while longer, staring into the fire, until finally Christine breaks the silence.

"Will you play a few songs for me, Erik? If you're not too tired, of course."

His eyes light up as he scrambles up off the floor, eager to leave the knitting and its accompanying thoughts of melancholy behind.

"Of course, Christine."

She watches him as his fingers fly over the keys of the organ, song after song spilling forth. She desperately wanted to see him do something he was good at, something to distract her mind from that awful knitting lesson, because she feared that the image of him sitting at her feet as he struggled with that yarn was going to haunt her every time she closed her eyes. This should do the trick, she thinks as he plays. It was rather unnerving to find there was anything that he struggled with so much - his letters were shaky, yes, but at least they were mostly legible. The knitting fiasco had been horrible in comparison.

Erik coaxes melodies sweet and plaintive from those keys, and Christine wonders if, when he had first started teaching her how to play the organ, he too had felt that odd mix of distant horror and sheer bafflement as she had struggled for so long to remember which keys to press in unison, that inward cringe as someone you knew to be otherwise smart and talented floundered about at a skill that was, for you, as easy as breathing. At least, she thinks wryly, she actually managed to learn how to play music.

She comes and sits next to him on the bench, and when he pauses at the end of the next song, she leans against him and rests her head on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Erik. I love hearing you play."

He reaches down and takes one of her hands in his own and gently squeezes it. His precious Christine. How he cherishes her. Only for her would he have even entertained the thought of attempting to knit again after those few disastrous tries so many years ago. Had anyone else brought up the subject it would have been entirely out of the question. His bruised ego is beginning to heal, and he knows that this was likely Christine's intent when she had asked him to play for her. He lifts her hand to his lips and places a delicate kiss to her fingers.

"I am sorry that I did not you tell sooner, Christine."

"It's alright, darling."

"And I am sorry that you will have to complete all thirty scarves by yourself."

She slumps just a little. She is capable of making all thirty herself, but wanting Erik's companionship was not the only reason she had intended that they each do fifteen.

"Oh, I suppose I will have to make all thirty..."

Erik hesitates.

"Perhaps," he begins. "Perhaps the time would pass quicker if I were to play for you as you worked? Or I could read to you?"

"Would you? Oh Erik, I would love that!"

So from then on their evenings are spent by the fire, she working away at the multicolored yarn while he sits next to her and reads aloud, or sometimes he would stand leaning against the armrest of the couch, playing any number of folk songs for her on the violin. These violin nights made her duck her head to hide a bittersweet tear from Erik, reminding her so much of evenings from her childhood spent knitting or darning or mending clothing while her papa played the violin for her, and it caused a painful sort of joy to bubble up inside of her as the memories of the past mixed with the sensations of the present and the hopes for the future. She would have enjoyed if Erik could knit alongside with her, but if that were the case she would not have had this exquisite sentimental ache, this feeling that she had thought long lost when her papa had died. She found herself rather thankful that it had all turned out this way, after all, and didn't really mind having to create double the amount of scarves as long as Erik kept playing for her.


	34. Chapter 34

Christine sighs sadly as she stands on the empty stage of the Opera Populaire. Her eyes scan the floor, trying to stay focused on her task and not got bogged down in thoughts of the past.

A ballet girl had lost her ring while rehearsing, and Christine had promised to look for it for her.

She can't help but glance up at row after row of empty seats in the dark theater and think of all the times she's stood here with the bright lights blazing and dazzling her eyes as she'd sing.

When she's busy with work or composing, or distracted with Erik, she can usually keep her mind from lingering too long on how much she misses this. But there at times, like now, when it is impossible to keep those feelings at bay.

Her spell of melancholy is broken by something fluttering in front of her face and falling on the ground. She looks down. Rose petals. She looks up. Erik.

Erik standing on the ropes holding the stage curtains up, holding tight to the ropes with one hand and crumpling a rose in the other and letting the petals fall around her in a gentle shower. She smiles.

"How did you get up there?"

He gives a nonchalant shrug.

"It is easy when you're a ghost, my love."

"Show me."

He points across to the thin catwalk meant for the lighting crew, and from there Christine can make out a series of ropes he must have stepped across.

On a whim she starts up the little ladder leading to the catwalk. Erik watches with amusement as she tries to stand on the narrow metal, a feat made much more difficult with her heeled shoes. He watches with less amusement as she appears to ready herself to step out into the ropes.

"Christine, that is entirely unsafe," he chides.

She scoffs, but realizes perhaps her balance is not quite as good as his, and stays where she is.

"Will you teach me? Then it would be safe."

"Why ever would you wish to learn such a skill?" he is confused.

"So that we may haunt the Opera Populaire together, of course."

He is touched at such a thought. How can he say no?

The very next day he constructs a wooden beam on a slightly elevated platform that she can walk across to learn her balance in a safe environment. As a former dancer, she takes to it quickly.

Several days after that he announces that he has a gift for her, one that will aid her in her wish to explore the secrets of the opera house. It's a box with some article of clothing in it, but she can't tell what.

"Go try it on," he suggests.

She takes the box to their bedroom to change. It takes her decidedly longer to change than it should, and it's almost to the point where Erik considers knocking on the door to see if she's alright when finally she appears.

Her face is flushed and she walks slowly into view, embarrassed. She keeps her eyes trained on the ground. She's not certain why she should feel so awkward, heaven knows he's already seen her in every stage of undress - and often enough too - that it shouldn't matter, but this feels so different somehow.

Erik has bought her pants.

Pantaloons, to be specific- loose in the legs and gathered at the ankle. They feel like something she would wear underneath of a dress or a skirt, but there is most definitely not a skirt that's meant to go over these. She checked the box, thinking there must be some mistake. But no. He has given her actual pants.

She creeps closer, her face feeling as though it will surely burst into flame at any moment.

"How do you like them? Do they feel like they fit?"

"They're pants," she chokes out.

He nods.

"Yes."

"Men wear pants."

"Women wore these all the time in Persia," he waved a hand as if to brush away her concern.

"Yes, but we are not in Persia, Erik," she reminds him.

"You don't like them," he sounds concerned, concerned and disappointed.

"No, it's just... It's very different," she isn't sure how she feels about it, but she knows she doesn't want him to think she doesn't like it.

Christine considers herself to be quite a modern woman - this is 1889, after all! - but she has never worn pants before save for the occasional costume on stage. Except this is no costume. These are to be normal clothing for her, and it feels like the most scandalous thing she's ever worn. But she must admit, the soft black silk does feel rather nice... However she could most definitely do without the feeling of her backside being so exposed.

"You cannot crawl around in tunnels and walk across ropes in your skirts, Christine."

She nods, understanding the logic behind it but still unused to the feeling of them.

Pants. She shivers.

"Perhaps- perhaps I could wear a small skirt over them..."

"Christine-" a smile quirks at his lips.

He stands up from the couch, walking behind her to put his arms around her. His wife is so adorable, he thinks fondly.

"Are you feeling shy about wearing your new pants?" he murmurs as he rests the uncovered side of his face against hers.

She squirms in his grip.

"I'm just not used to them," she's certain her face is beet red. "It- it feels like wearing men's clothing, almost. Or nothing at all, really."

"The point of them is to help you not be seen when you're playing ghost. No one will actually be watching you walk in them."

She didn't think it was possible for her face to feel any redder, but here she is.

"Why?! What's wrong with how I walk in them?!" she squeaks out.

She suddenly fears there's a concern she has yet to think of. He merely chuckles and pulls her closer.

"There's not a problem, Christine. I simply meant that you need not be embarrassed to wear them. I think they look just fine... Quite fine, in fact," he lowers his voice to a purr at the end and presses her to him just a little tighter.

She is reminded once again just how thin the material is, how different from her layers of skirts and bustle these new pants are, because she can most definitely feel things - very pronounced things - in a way she couldn't feel them through her skirts as her husband presses his hips against her backside, and she decides that perhaps these pants are not as terrible as she first thought if that's the kind of reaction they elicit from Erik.

So she wears them along with a black long sleeve shirt tucked into them when Erik is showing her the various tunnels she did not yet know of.

She is not certain where exactly he procured the shirt from, with its high collar and dark buttons, and despite how it's tailored to fit her perfectly she assumes that the shirt is also a man's shirt, but she figures since she is already wearing pants that it hardly matters anymore. She leaves her corset loosely laced, and that makes it far easier to stoop and move freely, although with so much clothing missing she can't shake the feeling that she's traipsing about nearly naked despite being cover wrist to toe.

Luckily there are enough things of interest in the tunnels to take her mind off of her unusual clothing.

It seems to Christine that there is not a single inch of the Opera Populaire that Erik is not familiar with. Hidden hallways, air ducts, secret staircases, spots where the sound will carry from certain other rooms, trapdoors (even trapdoors in the ceiling, for heaven's sake!), entire rooms behind the walls of other rooms - and he shows her every one. Her feet often ache by the time their exploring is through, and at the end of such nights he sits her on the couch and massages her feet.

Being taught the art of being a ghost by Erik is much different than being taught music by him. He holds music in too high a regard to treat it with anything other than complete devotion - their music lessons are professional and serious, a teacher and a pupil. But being a ghost - here he is mischievous, there are no rules. It is a side she has rarely seen of him, and she loves it. He is fearless in these moments, in his element. She tries not to think too much of the circumstances that have led him to know and use such skills, why it is imperative that he know how to escape a room without notice, why he must use tunnels instead of hallways.

Here he is simply a man with his wife, sharing his world of mystery and secrets - and occasionally sharing a kiss or two in the darkness. It feels strange to him to be showing anyone else this vast system of hidden passages and doors, a thing he's relied on to survive for so long - a thing that his survival depends upon it being secret. If Christine so wished it, she could send the gendarmes after him and there would be nowhere left to hide. His entire life is now laid bare before her, she could crush him like a bug under a boot - and the thought does scare him, but he is so tired of his solitude. But he trusts her completely - how can he not after all they have been through together? - and so not a single secret of the Opera Populaire is held back from her. She shall know it as he does.

"And no one uses these rooms for anything?" Christine asks, incredulous.

He has led her down a long tunnel deep underneath the Opera House, room after room on either side, most of them empty, some filled with rotting wooden barrels that likely contain gunpowder.

"Not anymore," he replies.

They reach the end of the tunnel and come upon what Erik had wanted to show her. He places a hand on her shoulder in warning - the stone pathway ends abruptly, ending in a sudden drop down into the underground lake.

Christine marvels as the sight of it. She knows that the lake is an extension of the Seine, but she's never given much thought to the sheer size of it before.

Erik turns the lantern off, and Christine gasps as the blue light of the glowing water fills the tunnel.

"Oh, Erik - it's beautiful! What makes it do that?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid I do not know, my dear. I've put much effort into finding out, but to no avail."

She steps closer to him, holding onto his arm and leaning against him. He slips an arm around her.

With the eerie blue water and the mossy stone floor and the drip drip drip of water coming from somewhere, she finds the setting oddly romantic. A glance up at Erik tells her that he feels similarly.

He stoops down as she leans up, and they spend a long moment in a kiss.

Erik knows that no matter how long he lives, no matter how often they share moments like this, he will never cease to be amazed at the miracle that is the sensation of her lips against his - but he is suddenly pulled from such tender thoughts by Christine gripping his shoulders tightly and the sound of her high pitched scream ringing off of the walls.

Everything had been quite lovely until she had felt something small and furry brush up against her ankle.

Erik is baffled by her behavior until he too feels something moving down by his ankles.

He sighs. They have been quite lucky, he supposes, to have only just now encountered a rat. He wisely chooses to withhold this information from her.

"What was it? What was it?" she babbles, clinging tightly to him, her eyes squeezed shut. "Oh! No, don't tell me - please, just turn the lantern back on."

He quickly turns the lantern back on before pulling her trembling form into his arms once more, stroking her hair.

"It's alright, Christine, it's alright," he soothes.

Erik has always been indifferent towards the rats that live so numerously in the Opera House (though he tries his best to prevent them from getting into his house) - they are merely fellow creatures who are shunned by the world above and shun it in return, trying to make it through another day just like he is, but now - now one has ruined an intimate moment with his dear wife, and because of the sins of that one single rat, he suddenly hates each and every last one of them with a burning passion.

Christine calms, and they both decide that they have had enough exploring for the day, so they return home.

The encounter with the rat, luckily, does not seem to dull her interest in following Erik into the walls as he had feared it would. On occasion they will hear a scritch of tiny claws, or a muffled squeak, and Christine will try her best to pretend that she did not hear it.

More than just the layout of the enormous building, he also teaches her all of the magician skills he knows, all of the things that have helped him to convince the poor denizens of the Opera House that he is truly a specter. Some she picks up easily, and some take more work, but she is determined and Erik is more than willing to continue with her training in the ghostly arts.

Eventually it becomes a second nature to her - she's able to slip away in shadow and climb the ropes and walk without a sound. There have been more than a handful of occasions that she didn't even realize she was walking so silently, suddenly appearing behind Madame Giry and frightening her on accident.

Although she's often with Erik when she's haunting the Opera, there are times he is otherwise occupied and she goes alone. Her command of opera gossip, while already impressive, now soars to new heights. She learns new information which she puts to good use, and quickly becomes a favorite of management - they often find themselves wondering how she knows just what they'd like done, suggests things they themselves were thinking, and offers solutions to problems they weren't aware anyone else knew of.

Who was stealing all of the earrings of out of the dressing rooms? Mlle Daae had an idea of who's vanity drawers to check. Were they going to be needing a replacement on short notice? Mlle Daae would mention that perhaps another understudy for a certain role would be smart, just in case the performer was deciding to leave suddenly. When was the last time anyone checked the pipes in the upper rooms? Mlle Daae managed to save them from quite a bit of water damage by mentioning it out of the blue one day, the leak was stopped while it was still a mere trickle before the entire pipe burst. Mlle Daae was truly an indispensable fountain of knowledge and advice.

It is no wonder, then, that one day while she's sitting in secret hallway where the sound from the managers' office carries, that she overhears her own name mentioned in a conversation regarding the current managers' possible retirement.


	35. Chapter 35

"Retiring? Oh, my," Christine's play at surprise is convincing.

The managers have called her to their office to lay out the information that they believe is new.

"You've been so terribly helpful all this time, Mlle Daae. We can't think of better hands to leave the Opera Populaire in than yours."

Christine increases her phony surprise tenfold. She gasps, her hands fluttering up to her face and she looks back forth between each manager. It's only thanks to her many years of acting skills that she manages to not burst out laughing at her own display.

"Why, do you really mean it? It would be a dream come true! It'll be an awful lot of work, certainly - but I feel I am more than ready for it! Thank you so much!"

It's a fine line between too surprised and too eager, but it's one she walks well thanks to rehearsing various replies with Erik and Giry.

The managers are pleased by her response. They arrange to have the paperwork drawn up the next day, and send Christine - future manager of the Opera Populaire- on her way.

She finds Giry waiting for her just around curve in the hallway, and greets her with a huge grin.

"They asked! It'll be official tomorrow!"

Giry could nearly faint with relief, but there's far too much to plan to spend any time in a swoon. With Christine as manager, things could be so different around here.

They return to Giry's office (perhaps not her office for very much longer, now) and find Erik waiting for them. He had, of course, been hiding in the walls of the managers' office, and so he already knows what has transpired. He sweeps Christine up into a hug and kisses her.

"I should think," she says, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. "That this marks the beginning of a very different sort of relationship between the Manager of the Opera and the Phantom of the Opera."

His laugh rings out, dark and warm.

Inside of the office, they set to drinking a bottle of champagne that Giry had stowed away there in anticipation of the good news. Christine feels as bubbly as the drink in her hand as she thinks of the future that's spread out before them. Not the future she had dreamed of as a little girl, nor as a young woman - not even the future she had dreamed of a mere year or so ago - but a glorious future all the same, perhaps made sweeter by its unexpectedness. She thinks back to that day when the doctor had told her she'd never sing again, how she never would have imagined such happiness could possibly await her.

Happiness, yes, and a great deal of work as well. The days pass quickly in a flurry of activity - there is much to be done, much she would change.

The first change she implements is to declare the top floor of the opera house off limits to everyone. She has whatever offices and storage rooms that are currently there moved to a different floor. She asks Erik to draw up the floor plans he would like, and she quietly hires a construction crew to build and to modify whatever existing floor plan into what he has requested.

The cellars will no longer be his home - she won't stand for it. She breathes a sigh relief as they finally finish moving whatever furniture and various decor he wished to continue to have upstairs in his new quarters, when he has finally made the rooms up there fully his. No longer will she have to worry over his health down there in the damp cellars, if he might catch a cold or a cough from the terrible conditions. He is getting older, after all, and it is of the utmost importance to her that she have him for as many years as she can, and that he be as comfortable as he can as well. He has had a difficult life, and he deserves comfort now. He casually mentions to her one day that his knees no longer ache as they used to, and he muses that it is likely due to no longer having to climb so many sets of stairs each day. She beams for the rest of the day over this, beyond pleased that he's feeling better.

It's not just her and Erik's living quarters that she has moved upstairs. She has given Madame Giry a serious promotion and a larger office on the top floor (she gives her former office to Christine, who has sentimental attachments to it, and who will need an office that isn't on the forbidden top floor so that she can meet with employees in it). Christine has an office upstairs too, one she shares with Erik. The three of them are now often found together, discussing the various matters regarding how to best keep the opera house running. Between the three of them, the next season is one of the most successful that the Populaire has ever seen.

It takes Erik a while to adjust to living upstairs. There are many moments where he startles awake in the morning, unused to the sunlight spilling in through the curtains, or when awakes at night confused by finding moonlight and not the usual pitch blackness of his former home. It is different, but not unwelcome. It is different, also, to walk through the halls of the top story without fear of being seen, though it feels very freeing. He can do as he pleases up there now, and on occasion he even sometimes forgets that he is not simply a normal man at his place of work.

Sometimes he goes out onto the roof, into a little alcove where he has placed a chair. He has no fear of being seen or found up here - the only possible people who could ever see him are either Christine or Giry. His chair situated as it is, he would also hear if either of them were coming long before he was seen by them. There are times, in this little alcove, that he removes his mask and his wig, feeling the sunlight on his entire face for the first time since - since he cannot remember when. It feels nice, warm. It feels like he need not hide anymore. He always makes certain that both are firmly back in place before he leaves the alcove, however. Still - it is nice, those few moments out of the day when he can look at Paris and feel the breeze and the sun and listen to the birds without any anxiety at all.

Although he would say that he currently feels more at peace than he ever has before, there are still sleepless nights here and there. Sometimes he goes up to the alcove at night, to stand under the stars and to breathe the cool night air. Sometimes Christine joins him, having woken after the realizing the absence of her husband next to her. There's no need for words there, standing close to each other, her arms around his waist and his arm around her shoulder, both staring out at the cityscape that's been illuminated as never before with the new electric lights. He will invariably kiss her on the top of her head before eventually suggesting they both return to bed, his mind feeling a little more quiet now.

He's pleased to be able to finally work - not as a Ghost, but as a normal man. Christine has put him in charge of casting for the majority of shows and overseeing all of the productions. No longer must he write cryptic notes and vaguely threaten for his ideas and opinions to be taken seriously. The opera has grown tremendously in quality ever since.

Christine finds her new life can become stressful at times - sometimes more often than not (where would they all go if a certain decision caused the opera house to have to shut down? It's a tremendous amount of pressure). But on the whole she enjoys it immensely. It's tiring but satisfying work. And how she could not love working with Giry and Erik? Two of her favorite people?

She only very seldom finds herself wishing that she could still be a part of the opera house the way she used to. Occasionally she goes for long stretches of time without even thinking of singing - occasionally, like tonight, the feeling of nostalgia and sadness is a little nearer and dearer.

Tonight is the premier of her Nightingale opera.

She sits with Erik up in Box Five, nervously awaiting the the sound of the orchestra warming up, the sign that her show would soon begin.

She wishes that it were still her down there, on the other side of that red and gold curtain, and her heart aches a little. She realizes, of course, that if she had still been down there, there would be no Nightingale opera at all - no opera by the new composer Daaé, no Ghost turned opera house manager, and who knows what else might have been different? So many lovely things that had happened all because of that cough she didn't get checked in time... But she would like to think that some of them would have occurred, even still.

She glances at Erik.

She still would have been in love with him, she knew that. She would like to hope that they still would have married, but she wonders at what the different circumstances might have been. How would she have confessed her love, if she still had her voice? Would she still have needed to write an entire opera to convince him?

The orchestra hums to life. The show is beginning.

Erik reaches out and grabs her hand that's gripping tightly to her armrest, and he gives it a squeeze, smiling at her. She smiles right back. It feels like her heart is made of birds at that moment.

The lights dim and the curtain draws, and nearly every thought of what might have been vanishes. All that is left is Christine Daaé the composer watching her first opera being performed for the first time with her husband and mentor by her side, and that is more than enough.

Erik could not be prouder of his wife, of this woman who loves him so much despite his shortcomings, of this dear woman he could not imagine life without. Her opera is a thing of beauty, and when the curtain falls and the lights go up again he springs to his feet to applaud.

Christine wipes away a few happy tears. The show had been everything she had hoped it would be. It feels like a dream and she can scarcely believe that it's not. She stands as well when she claps (not for herself, but for the performers and musicians who had brought her lovely dream to life), and while doing so she scans the audience to see their reactions.

Erik had been the first to stand, but Christine notices someone in the audience who is a quick second to stand as well.

Raoul.

Raoul de Chagny is there, front row, standing and applauding wildly. Christine's breath catches a moment. There's a young woman there with him, and Christine notices the sparkle of a diamond ring on her finger. She's standing and clapping joyfully too, smiling. Madame de Chagny, Christine supposes. She vaguely remembers that she's seen her before now, but she honestly hadn't thought of either of them very much until this very moment.

Erik notices where she's staring so breathlessly, and he paused as he watched the pair down below. Any jealousy he might feel is wasted, Christine thinks to herself. She is surprised to see him again after all this time, and she feels only the vaguest of wistful nostalgia for him - she knows those days are far behind them all. She misses him like she misses being a child - carefree innocence that she knows she can never recover, but isn't certain if she wants to even as she laments it's loss. They both found others to marry, and Christine would not change her choice for the world. She hopes that he is as happy with his wife as she is with Erik. Raoul deserves to be happy, she thinks, and smiles a little. He certainly looks happy.

A glance at Erik tells her that he is uncertain. When she turns to him she can read the questions etched there on his face as plain as day - do you miss him? Do you wish he were by your side instead?

Christine smiles kindly at him.

"It's a surprise to see him here," she tells him. "I hadn't been expecting him."

Erik licks his lips, which suddenly feel too dry.

"Do you- do you wish to go speak with him?" he asks, nervous.

She looks down at her old friend and his wife again, at how they smile at other as they whisper and laugh. She shakes her head.

"No," she says. "No, not tonight. Perhaps- perhaps another time we'll catch up with each other. But tonight I only want the company of my husband."

Erik relaxes once more at her words, observing his one-time rival. He looks a little older, a little more mature, and now he's sporting a mustache. Erik reaches a tentative finger to his own face.

"Christine," he hesitates. "Do you think I should grow a mustache?"

She turns to him, thinking he's having a go at her, but she quickly realizes from the nearly pained look on his face that he's actually serious. She glances at Raoul and back to Erik, pressing her lips into a thin line.

"Decidedly not," she says with a huff, and he nods.

She breathes a little sigh of relief. She hadn't been a fan of Raoul's mustache to begin with, the very last thing she needed was Erik somehow getting the idea that she thought Raoul more handsome than him, causing him to try to imitate the young man.

They stay in Box Five until the theater is empty. There, as the last two people left, a flutter of nerves return to Christine's stomach. It had gone well, and people had seemed to like it, but she couldn't help but worry over it even still.

"It was perfectly fine," Erik squeezes her hand again as he assures her. "Everyone loved it, and of course they did - it was marvelous!"

She nods, trying to convince herself.

He can tell, however, that it's still consuming her even as they prepare for bed that evening, and he realizes that perhaps a bit of distraction would be for the best.

"Everything could not have gone more perfectly tonight," he murmurs between soft kisses to her cheek and neck as he pulls her close. "A perfect performance of a perfect story with a perfect score."

"Oh?" she blushes a little and squirms to be closer to him.

"And written by a perfect wife," he sighs happily. "How did I ever manage to gain such a blessing?"

He scoops her up and carries her to bed as she giggles softly, and he knows his plan has succeeded.

First thing in the morning, she goes to the market and buys a newspaper. She folds it in half under her arm as she hurries back to the opera house, too nervous to even peek at what it might have to say before she's safely in her kitchen.

Erik is there in their kitchen when she gets back, a cup of tea waiting for her. She takes a sip with trembling hands while Erik eyes the paper, but he doesn't open it, knowing that she wants to be the first to read the review.

She takes a deep breath and opens it, flipping through the pages until she finds what she's looking for. She begins to read it out loud, her voice a little unsteady at first.

"The Nightingale, by new composer Christine Daaé, premiered last night at the Opera Populaire. This little show, while unusual in many respects, is a - oh, Erik! - he said it was a triumph of the arts!" her face lights up at the review. "He said everyone should go see it!"

Erik picks her up and spins her around as she laughs.

"What did I tell you, my dear?"

After the newspaper's recommendation, every showing is sold out. Inspired by such wild success, Christine and Erik begin to collaborate on a second opera, although progress on this one is a little slower than on the first. Neither one minds, however. It is the process of creating and the time spent together that they both enjoy.

The season closes, one of the most successful in the opera house's history. It is nearly Christmastime again, so they throw a small party on the top floor, one to celebrate both the coming holiday and the end of a successful show. The party size has doubled since last year - instead of just the trio, now Meg and her husband are able to attend, along with Nadir.

It's a lovely evening with lovely people, and plenty of cake and wine to go around. They linger there for hours, and Christine marvels at how much it feels like they are a normal couple entertaining friends in their own home. Erik is no longer shy at the little party, instead feeling quite outgoing, and Christine is proud of how well he does with conversation.

Their guests slowly and regretfully take their leave, first Nadir, and then Madame Giry, and then Meg and her husband. At last it is just Christine and Erik left on the couch in front of the fireplace.

She glances up at him, at the ghost of a smile left on his face as he recalls the previous hours and companionship it afforded. She thinks back to the previous Christmas, how different things are, how hard they've both worked to establish this little life of theirs.

When she returned to the Populaire, voiceless, hopeless, she never could have imagined anything like this might come to pass for her. She is happily married to the man she loves so dearly, she is no longer a singer but she is a budding composer and writer and musician, she is co-manager of an entire opera house, she has a very spacious apartment (in a sense) that's quite charming in its decor and style, she has beloved friends who keep in touch frequently, and an entire future spanning out before her now. She sighs happily.

And Erik - he no longer has to live in a cellar. No longer has to live without being loved. His work is the respectable work of a man and not that of a specter. Her heart has never felt so full as it currently does.

"Erik," she whispers. "I love you."

Erik doesn't freeze as he did last year upon hearing those same words - no, now he smiles when he looks at her. She leans over to kiss him, and this time when he reaches for her, it is most definitely not to push her away. He did not repeat her sentiments before the kiss, but no matter - she can feel his response in his lips and in his hands and on his tongue. Nevertheless, he breaks the kiss and pulls back just enough to murmur something, his voice dark and rich before kissing her again.

"I love you too, Christine."

 **Author's Note: You've reached the end! Thanks so much to everyone who read along, and to everyone who commented. It really means a lot!**


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